


Undercover

by tuppenny



Series: Growing Together [4]
Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: ...aka standard fanfic let's be honest the majority is angst and anguish :P, F/M, I'm sorry! I'm trying to be up front w/o spoiling the story, and therefore some mentions of blood, anyway, bc I have never been in a fight so I don't know how they work, but I'm not into writing gore for gore's sake? so it shouldn't be anything super graphic, but also happy stuff! I promise! and silliness and friendship and loyalty, def some angst and violence and yadda yadda, definitely some violence in this one, don't want to trigger anyone but I'm also terrible at tags, it's not really that graphic, mental anguish etc, putting characters through the wringer a little bit, there's another fight in ch 5 so don't read this if you're not in the headspace for it!, well okay like one fight, when I was like 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-12 01:52:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11727027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuppenny/pseuds/tuppenny
Summary: When the newsies of Lower Manhattan find themselves under attack by a foe they can't beat, Jack and Katherine decide that it's up to them --and the power of the press-- to save the day.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one is set in August 1903. Jack and Katherine are 21 or 22, depending on when you set their birthdays.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one of the Manhattan newsies has a dangerous encounter.

It was August in New York City, and the city reeked of sweat and summer and sin. A lone newsboy hawked his wares at the corner of Broadway and Canal Street, trying desperately to sell the last of his papers so he could escape the blistering pavement and unrelenting sun. He was so intent on making a sale to someone, anyone, that he didn’t notice the group of three nattily dressed boys walking up behind him until it was too late.

“Hey, pissant, whatcha doin’ here? I distinctly remembers tellin’ ya ta get lost last week.”

The boy swung around and sucked in a breath when he saw who had insulted him. “This is my sellin’ spot. Has been for years.” The boy stood firm and defiant, but his voice betrayed him by wobbling at the end.

“Yeah, well, like I toldja last week, it’s ours now.” The leader of the group took a menacing step forward and raised a fist. “Your hearin’ clearly ain’t too good, so me an’ the boys here is gonna help ya out with that by givin’ that head of yours a thorough inspection. With our fists, o’ course.”

The newsboy clutched his remaining papers to his chest as if they could shield him from what was to come. He looked frantically at the flow of people on the sidewalk, hoping to find a friendly face in the crowd, but it was as if the newsboy and his adversaries were in a world of their own, somewhere no one could see that he needed help or hear him scream. To be fair, he hadn’t expected any different; this street corner was always busy, but it was never busy with enough good Samaritans to keep a newsie from getting clobbered by Paul Kelly’s men. And he’d chosen to keep selling here despite knowing that.

After last week’s run-in with this same crowd, Race had told him to switch spots to the cross between Orchard and Hester, and he’d said no. Race had shrugged and dropped the subject; he might be the leader of the Lower Manhattan newsies, but it wasn’t his job to tell any boy where to draw the line between safety and money. That was a personal choice. The frightened newsie gauged the three boys in front of him, knowing he didn’t stand a chance, and sighed. This was his own fault, really. And he’d been expecting it, too, although he’d hoped to pocket a few more weeks’ good pay before being run out. But it seemed his time was up.

“That ain’t necessary fellas, I was just leavin’,” He said, doing an awkward shuffle step away from the group.

“Oh no, it’s real necessary. Ya clearly needs ta have some sense beaten inta that thick skull of yours.” The leader’s two flunkies stepped forward, each of them grabbing one of the newsie’s weedy arms. Not a single passer-by gave the frightened boy a second glance as he was frog-marched down the sidewalk and into an abandoned alleyway. He struggled as best he could, jerking from side to side, twisting his arms, going limp, trying to jab his assailants’ sides with his elbows, but the only thing he got for his troubles was a sock to the jaw. These were experienced bruisers, and they were wise to all of his tricks.

The boy hadn’t meant to show any fear, he didn’t want to shame the Manhattan newsies, he’d never been one to flinch from a fight, but he began to sob in terror as he was dragged deeper into the alley, back behind piles of trash that would keep anyone on the street from seeing Paul Kelly’s men finish their dirty work. The two goons flung the newsie against the brick wall of the alleyway, and he let out a cry as the wind was knocked out of him. Gasping in pain, he scrabbled for pebbles and grit to throw in his attackers’ eyes before scrambling to his feet and trying to dart away, but there was no escape. The boys drew closer, cutting him off from the exit by forming a tight ring around him, backing him up against the wall. One flashed his brass knuckles menacingly while another brandished a truncheon. The third, the leader, gave a toothy smile.

“If you’s still alive tomorrow, tell Racer we sends our regards.” Then the leader gave a nod, the newsie drew his arms up to shield his head, and the beating began.

Three minutes later, a trio of boys sauntered onto the crowded sidewalk of Canal Street, their fists and trouser cuffs spattered with blood, their swagger unmistakable.

The alleyway behind them was as quiet as the grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pissant as an insult applied to a person dates back to 1903! Just barely period-appropriate there. ☺
> 
> Paul Kelly is a real historical person if you want to get some sense of where I'm going with this one outside of the very little information I've dropped here.
> 
> Chapter 1 is a set-up chapter; the lack of recognizable characters is deliberate. They'll pop up soon, I promise. Or soon in terms of the story, anyway; I'm currently in the midst of writing a dissertation, applying for jobs, getting ready to teach a college course, preparing to move, drafting a conference paper and presentation, writing a journal article, and hosting a guest (among other things), so please bear with me on however long it takes me to write and post things! <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Race asks Jack for help.

Jack was sitting on his saggy mattress in the boarding house room he shared with Crutchie, humming and sketching out ideas for some new political cartoons. They could have afforded a nicer place, what with Jack’s steady income from his illustration job and Crutchie’s new gig at _The World_ ’s accounting office (it turned out that, after years of doing the math on paper sales, the kid was a numbers whiz. Once Jack finally convinced Mr. Simmons, the paper’s head accountant, to give Crutchie an interview, his pal got hired in no time at a desk job that let him keep his weight off his leg and use his sunny personality to brighten up the entire floor), but neither of them wanted to spend a penny more than they had to on rent. For one thing, you never knew when hard times would come again, and for another, both of them had hopes for bigger things in life, things that required cash in advance, like deposits on full size apartments, and college courses, and train tickets to see the world… and... engagement rings…

For now, though, Jack was content to be where he was in life. Twenty-two years old, a promising career, a brilliant girlfriend, a true-blue friend of a roommate, a room in a boarding house where he could sleep inside and share a bathroom with only twelve other people instead of thirty-- yes, life was good. He and Crutchie were finally knocking the last of the gutter mud off their feet, and soon enough the world would be their oyster. Suddenly, Jack's reverie was interrupted by someone hammering at the door to his room.

“Jack! Jack, are ya there? For the love of Pete, open up!”

Recognizing Race’s voice and startling at its steadily rising note of panic, Jack sprang off the bed and dashed to the door, quickly undoing the triple locks. “What’s wrong?” He motioned Race into the room and towards a simple wooden chair, but the other boy was too agitated to sit.

“It’s Elmer. He’s in a bad way.” Race had chewed through the end of his ever-present cigar before moving on to worry at his lips, which were now red from his own sharp teeth and brown from tobacco juice. He paced back and forth across the uneven wooden floor. “Some of the Five Points Gang busted him up real good.” His voice caught and he yanked his cap off of his head to twist it between his hands. “I dunno if he’s gonna make it.”

At this, Jack snatched his shoes and socks from the untidy pile at the foot of his bed and yanked them onto his feet. Then he grabbed his newsie cap off the nightstand, jammed it on his head, and shoved Race out into the hallway, pausing only to lock the door behind him. “Let’s go.”

Jack didn’t need any prompting from Race to speed his walk up into a run as they headed to the newsies’ lodging house.

“Slush fund?” Jack asked, breathing hard as they sped through the crowded streets.

“Used it all up ta pay for Skittery an’ Sniper when they got soaked like this last week.”

“ _What?_ Why didn’t ya tell me?” Jack nearly broke stride.

Race shrugged. “We had the money then, an’ they weren’t so bad off as Elmer. Them Five Points boys really busted him up good.”

“How long has this been goin’ on, Race?” Jack’s voice was a low growl.

“Maybe a month?” Jack did break stride then, but only for a moment-- just long enough to smack Race upside the head. “Look, I ain’t here for a talkin-to, Jack, I’m a damn good leader for those boys an’ you knows it.”

“Yeah, I do, which is why I’m surprised ya ain’t come ta me sooner.” Jack glared at Race as they slowed up outside the lodging house.

“You’ve got your own life now, Jackie boy. Ain’t gonna drag ya back inta this mess when it ain’t your fight.”

“You’s my _family_ , Race!” His wounded look, so effective on Katherine and Davey, drew no reaction from Race, who simply wiped at his runny nose.

“That’s right, an’ family wants the best for each other, don’t it? Well, dealin’ with this weren’t what’s best for you, Jack. Ya needed time away from us so’s you could get your life set up an’ all.” Jack rolled his shoulders but didn’t disagree. As his responsibilities at _The World_ had grown over the years, he’d found it increasingly difficult to balance newsie life with his career. And besides, not only was he too old to be a newsie now, anyway, but also Race would never have fully commanded the newsies’ respect if Jack hadn’t moved out and backed off. “But now Elmer needs you more than you needs time away, so.”

Instead of admitting that Race was right, Jack tipped up his newsboy cap and continued chewing his piece of gum. Race understood these gestures, though, and he clapped his friend on the shoulder in reconciliation. Jack nodded and said gruffly, “Show me up ta him, then.”

Jack sucked in a breath when he saw Elmer lying unconscious on a worn mattress in the lodging house's front room. Race hadn’t been exaggerating. The boy really was in bad shape. Jack wasn’t surprised; he was well aware that the Five Points Gang had a reputation for brutality. Still, hearing about brutality couldn’t compare to seeing its results in person. He moved closer to Elmer, Race following just a few steps behind.

Buttons was sitting at the bedside, ready with a glass of water should Elmer wake up. A pile of bloody rags and a bucket of dirty water sat next to him on the floor.

“Still everyone’s big brother, eh, Buttons?” Jack said softly, laying a hand on his friend’s bony shoulder.

“Always,” Buttons answered, reaching over to switch out a cold compress on Elmer’s forehead.

“Can’t believe ya managed to clean up so much of the blood,” Race said admiringly. “An’ look at that bandagework—ya oughta work in a hospital or summat, Buttons.”

“He needs a real doctor,” Buttons said, shaking his head. “He feels awful hot. Dunno if it’s the weather or an infection, but either way, it ain’t good. I ain’t stitched him up, neither, but that needs doin’, too. An’ that arm needs settin’. An’ I ain’t been able ta get him ta drink nothin’ through those fat lips…” The normally sunny newsie covered his face in his hands. “I ain’t gonna lie, fellas, it don't look good.”

Jack shifted his shoulders and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “What if we get Elmer a doctor, a quiet room, an’ a clean bed ta sleep in?”

Buttons shrugged. “That’ll help, sure, an’ it’d be even better if we could get a nurse ta keep an eye on him, some broth in his belly, an’ for Jesus ta return an’ start workin’ miracles, but we ain’t got the money or the piety for none of that. Slush fund’s out, an’ I don’t think God’ll start the Second Comin’ early on account of ol’ Elmer.”

“Hey now,” Jack said. “I ain't no Messiah, but have ya forgotten that I looks out for my boys?" He gripped Buttons' shoulder tightly. "I got some cash put by an’ I got a plan, so don’t you give up yet, Buttons.” He crouched down by Elmer's head and gave the battered newsie a long, considering look. “Alright. Here’s what we’re gonna do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Five Points Gang did have a reputation for being brutal. 
> 
> Summat is an word used in some British English dialects to mean 'something,' but since Higgins could be the last name of an English immigrant (although it's more likely Higgins would be the name of an Irish family), I'm leaving it. Because I like using slang words. So there.
> 
> Slush fund is a period appropriate term! I thought surely it'd be anachronistic, but nope. (I'm sure plenty of other things in this chapter are, but that is not one of them.)
> 
> WHY DO I WRITE STUPID STORIES INSTEAD OF SLEEPING AGH


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack makes a sandwich and Race gets upset.

Katherine rubbed her eyes and locked the apartment door behind her. It had been a long day at _The Sun_ , and she was in desperate need of a cold shower and something to eat. She undid just enough of the buttons on her shoes to be able to kick them off into the corner by the door, and, after some muttering and hopping, she managed to tug off her stockings and toss them after her shoes. A pile of petticoats quickly followed; women’s summer fashions were simply abominable. “A skirt ought to be enough,” she grumbled, reaching for a ribbon she kept tied on the coatrack and using it to pull her hair up off of her neck. Shower first, then food. Though did she even have any food in the house? She hadn’t checked the pantry in a while, but there was probably some jam in there, and, oh, she had some potatoes sitting on the counter… did people eat jam and potatoes? And if they did, were the potatoes baked, boiled, or fried? She walked down the hall to the bathroom, considering.

Wait, were those voices coming from the living room or from outside? Had she forgotten to close the windows? She tensed up, but only slightly; it was probably just Jack chattering to himself the way he often did when working through a complex idea. Or maybe he’d brought Crutchie along for supper. That would be nice—she hadn’t seen Crutchie in about a week, and she wanted to hear how he was getting along with courting Rosie.

“That you, dear heart?” She called. 

“Me and some of the boys,” she heard Jack answer, and then he poked his head out of the living room and into the hall. “You decent? Oh, good. We’re havin’ a powwow in here, and we could use your help.”

“Mind if I shower first? And do you know if there’s any easy food in the kitchen? I’ve decided against potatoes and jam.” 

He gave her a quizzical look but didn’t bother to ask any questions; he’d learned long ago that Katherine’s eating habits were, well, odd. She could be discerning when she wished to be, as befitted someone raised on meals cooked by a professional chef, but when left to her own devices her food choices were completely unpredictable. More than once, he’d come over at dinnertime to find her eating the exact same thing she’d had for every single meal for the last three days, or finishing off an entire jar of pickles, or absently sucking on spoonfuls of peanut butter, dangling her legs over the arm of a chair and reading a book. “I can make you a ham and cheese sandwich, if you’d like? With mayo and lettuce?”

She pursed her lips. “I haven’t been grocery shopping in ages, are you sure the ham hasn’t gone off?”

“No, it’s fine, I just picked it up on Monday.” Jack was much better at keeping Katherine’s pantry stocked than she was. He had a visceral fear of running out of food, and so she tried to always have _something_ edible in the house, but whether or not that something was worth eating –take potatoes and jam, for example– was another matter entirely.

“Ooh, perfect! Thank you!” She gave him a quick hug and then turned and waved to the council of boys in the living room. “Hi guys, I’ll be there in a couple of minutes. Good to see you!”

“Hey, Kath,” they chorused back. 

They looked and sounded a little glum, she thought, but she pushed that out of her head. Whatever had happened, she was getting her shower first. And besides, if Jack had offered to make her a sandwich before telling her what was going on, then no matter how serious the trouble was, it wasn’t immediately, urgently serious, and she could worry about it once she’d had time to wash the sweat off her skin. 

She entered the living room ten minutes later in a breezy muslin dress, her skin scrubbed and glowing, her wet hair braided and dripping onto the wooden floor. Jack got up from his spot on the floor and handed her a plate with a sandwich and an apple, kissing her on the cheek as he did so, and she sat down next to him, waving away Davey’s offer for his seat on the couch. 

“Thanks, but no need. I could pull a chair in from the kitchen if I cared, but I don’t. So, what’s the matter?” She took a massive bite of the apple and leaned into Jack, who put his arm around her and pulled her still closer. 

Race fiddled with the cigar in his fingers and rubbed at his hair. “It’s a coupla things,” he said grimly. “Elmer got busted up real bad yesterday, so bad that he didn’t make it home an’ we had ta go lookin’ for him. Kid was lyin’ in an alleyway, Kath, just lyin’ there in filth for who knows how long.” He slouched deeper into the couch. “Buttons here has been takin’ real good care of him,” he said, motioning to the newsie sitting next to him, “But we still ain’t sure Elmer’s gonna make it.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Katherine said, feeling bad for eating with such gusto when Elmer was in such dire straits. She turned her face up to Jack. “You already brought him here, right? Put him in my bed and had a doctor come see him?”

“Did it this afternoon, love,” he said, rubbing her arm. “Doctor said ol’ Elmer’s got a fifty-fifty chance, but I’d put it higher. Manhattan newsies don’t give up easy.”

She smiled and nodded. She loved Jack's concern for his boys. Even though they weren't technically his boys anymore, on some level they always would be. Which made them her boys, too. So Elmer had to get better, goshdarnit-- she'd kill him if he didn't. She patted Jack's leg. “Manhattan newsies are the bravest boys I know. And I’m sure with proper nursing he’d stand an even better shot of getting well.” 

“I nominate Buttons,” said Race. “He knows Elmer real well, an’ I don’t trust no fancy nurse ta take care of Elmer the way they’s s’posed to. They might see a kid like him an’ think he weren’t worth the effort.” 

Katherine winced at this, but she didn’t disagree. Instead, she looked at Buttons. “Would you be willing to do that, Buttons? You’d be paid, of course—you shouldn’t have to choose between wages and taking care of a friend.” 

“I dunno, Kath, I ain’t ‘zactly a professional.”

“You make up for that in other ways. Like Race said, you know Elmer’s cues and what’s normal for him, he knows you and won’t startle to see you, and we can trust you to do your best for him instead of pocketing the money and sneaking out. That makes you better than any professional nurse.” Buttons didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he had uncrossed his arms and sat up a little straighter, so Katherine kept going. “Plus you’ve kept him stable so far, and I’m sure the doctor can talk you through anything you’ll need to do but don’t know how to yet." Seeing him cave just a little more, she added, "And to be honest, if Elmer’s as bad off as you all say, then I don’t think there’s much a professional nurse could do for him that you can’t, Buttons.” 

“Okay,” he said. “I’m gonna need a bucket of water, some clean washrags, an’ some tea, then.”

“On the double,” said Jack, untangling himself from Katherine and going to the kitchen with Buttons to get the boy set up.

“Alright, then, Race-- you said a couple of things were wrong,” said Katherine. “What else is there?”

“The Five Points Gang,” he muttered, jamming his cigar back into his mouth and twisting his newsboy cap in both hands. “They’s been harassin’ us for weeks, sayin’ we either gots ta clear offa Paul Kelly’s turf or give the gang half our earnings in order ta keep sellin’ west of the Bowery.” He looked down at his knees. “I hoped we could just ignore ‘em an’ they’d drop it, but that ain’t worked. Then I tried a parley, but Paul Kelly wouldn’t talk. Then I tried sendin’ the boys out in pairs so’s they could watch each other’s backs, but they sold less an’ still got soaked.” He ground his teeth together before continuing. “Next I told ‘em ta fight back, but that was dumb, ‘cause it just made them Five Points boys madder. Finally, I told the newsies just ta run away soon’s they see Kelly’s boys comin’, an’ not ta sell on certain streets if they could help it, but ya see how that worked out.” His voice was dangerously close to breaking. “Skittery an’ Sniper is still laid up from last week, an’ now Elmer’s maybe gonna… maybe gonna die, an’ I can’t do a thing about it.” He took the cigar from his mouth and clenched it in his fist, driving his fingernails into the tobacco’s paper wrapping. “I’m at my wits’ end, Kath. My boys is getting’ hosed, an’ I can’t protect ‘em.” He jerked his head up savagely to stare her right in the eyes. “What good’s a newsie leader who can’t protect his boys, huh? No good at all, that’s what!”

Crutchie reached across from his chair to give Race a gentle shake. “Leaders can’t always protect their men, Racetrack-- they just gots ta lead ‘em as best they can,” he said quietly. “Ain’t your fault the newsies can’t beat no street gang. They’s kids what’s good at sellin’ papes, not thugs what’s good at crackin’ skulls.”

Davey nodded and clapped a hand on Race’s shoulder. “You can’t blame yourself, Race. You aren’t the one who’s choosing to hurt these kids, so don’t act like you are.”

By this time, Jack had sent Buttons into Katherine’s bedroom to watch over Elmer and had returned to the living room, settling back down next to Katherine. “Okay, Racer, whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout doin’ next?”

Race shrugged. “Tellin’ the newsies ta up sticks an’ move ta new boroughs, I guess. I ain’t gonna stand by an’ watch no gang take ‘em out one by one, an’ I ain’t gonna let ‘em join no gang, neither.”

Katherine and Davey let out a cry of protest, but Crutchie and Jack nodded.

“I bet Spot would let ya send some over his way,” Crutchie said thoughtfully. “An’ I could maybe get some placed at the accountin’ department of _The World_ as runners an’ messenger boys.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Think you could get some in the art department, Jack?”

Jack rubbed at his nose. “Yeah, prob’ly. Between Brooklyn an’ _The World_ , I bet we could get spots for half the newsies.”

“I got connections in Queens, I could pull some strings there,” Crutchie added. 

Race sat a little straighter. “An’ Harlem still owes me a favor from last fall..." He brightened. "This could work, this could really work!”

“You’re not seriously considering this, are you?” Davey said, incredulously.

Race turned to glare at him. “Considering _what_ , Jacobs?”

“Rolling over and dying!” Seeing that Race was completely unreceptive, he appealed to Jack. “Oh come on, Jack, we can’t just give up, it’s not right!” 

Jack rolled his eyes. “First of all, this ain't no 'we' situation. You an' me is outta the newsie game, so we ain't the ones what gets ta make the call on this. Second of all, since when does this city ever care about what’s right? Ya do what ya need to ta survive, an’ if you’s overmatched in a fight, ya gets out as fast as ya can. Ya don’t stick around ta keep gettin’ clobbered.”

Katherine made a disgruntled noise. “Did you learn nothing from the strike, Jack Kelly? You fight for what’s right when you get the chance to, because if you walk away, you’re just agreeing to let someone else to get clobbered in your place.”

“That ain’t what I—”

“Oh yes, it _is_ ,” said Katherine. “Now, I wouldn’t say this if I thought things were completely unwinnable, because there's no sense in sending the boys out to be cannon fodder for the sake of high morals, but I think we can do it. I think _I_ can do it.”

“Look, Kath,” Jack said, shifting her off of his side and putting a little distance between them. “Me an’ Race are the only ones here what’s ever led a borough of newsies. We know how street politics works better’n you an’ Davey. We know slum life better’n you an’ Davey. We know gangs better’n you an’ Davey. So if Race has a plan an’ I second it, I think it’s probably a pretty good plan.”

Katherine scowled. “You’re not _listening_. I said I could fix this, and I can, if you just let me tell you how. You and Race might be the only ones who have officially led a borough of newsies, but you are _not_ the only ones capable of having a good idea. And the only reason I am telling you this so calmly,” she added, her tone becoming increasingly sharp, “Is because normally you are a very good listener. I don’t know what your problem is today, but you’re behaving like we haven’t spent the last four years learning how to make our way through life _together_ , and that is unacceptable. You know better, Jack, so act like it.” 

Jack stopped smacking his gum, and his nostrils flared. Davey’s eyes flicked nervously from Katherine to Jack. Race had stopped twisting his cap into a corkscrew, and Crutchie shifted uneasily in his seat. In sum, Katherine’s apartment had gone completely silent, and it stayed that way for several eternal moments.

“I’d like ta hear your idea, Katherine,” said Crutchie softly. “If there’s a way ta keep the Manhattan newsies safe from the Five Points Gang, I want ta know about it. ‘Cause I got a feelin’ that if we just give in, they’s just gonna expand to wherever we goes next. An’ if they don’t, then other gangs in the city is gonna see what happened an’ start pullin’ the same trick.” He looked from Race to Jack, his expression earnest. “Katherine's right. We gotta make a stand, boys. Things won’t get better if we don’t.” 

Race stared at his hands; Jack stared at Crutchie. A silent look of understanding passed between the two young men, the memories of bad pay and worse food and constant hardship mirrored in each other’s eyes. Jack gave a short nod. “Crutchie’s got a point. This is bigger’n just Paul Kelly. Eastman’s prob’ly watching an’ takin’ notes, an’ so are the Hudson Dusters, an' the Gopher Gang, an' the Gas House Gang, an’ who all knows who else. If we don’t nip this in the bud here, it’s gonna spread, an’ newsies all over this city is gonna be in for it.” Then he turned back to Katherine and adjusted his newsboy cap. “An’ I owe you an apology, Ace. You’re right. I wasn’t listening to you, I just brushed you off, and that was wrong of me. Your thoughts are just as valuable an’ important as anyone else’s, an’ I wasn’t treating you like I should’ve. I’m sorry.” He rolled his shoulders slightly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you forgive me?” 

“Of course,” she said, scooting back to his side. “Forgiven and forgotten, love.” She rested a hand on his knee and turned to the other boys, a teasing note to her voice. “So, are you ready for a little Katherine Plumber brilliance?” 

“Shoot,” said Race, a little sullenly. Katherine arched her eyebrow and stared him down. Crutchie hid a grin behind his hand, knowing that Race would give in before Katherine did—which is what happened, of course. No one could rattle Katherine Pulitzer when she was certain she was in the right.

Jack laughed silently. Oh, how he loved this girl. “We’re ready, darlin’. What’s your plan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monk Eastman ran a gang that controlled the territory east of the Bowery; Paul Kelly’s gang controlled everything to the west of the Bowery. The Hudson Dusters, Gopher Gang, and Gas House Gang are just a few (!) of the other gangs operating in Lower Manhattan during this time period.
> 
> Someone jokingly told me recently that I eat like a frat boy (sob sob), and I imagine that Katherine would behave similarly when she's engrossed in her work. Who has time to cook real food when there are stories to chase and articles to write?!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Katherine reveals her bright idea and the boys react.

Katherine looked around the room to make sure she had her audience’s attention. Jack always thought she’d have made an excellent newsie; she had a natural flair for showmanship that rivaled his own. She flipped her wet braid with a flick of her hand and grinned. “Two words: Undercover reporting.”

Davey’s eyes widened to saucers. “You mean you want to go undercover in the Five Points Gang?” He scooted forward to the edge of the couch, his expression one of admiration rather than disbelief or disapproval. “Geez, Kath, you sure like going after the tough stories, don’t you.”

Jack had gone completely stiff at Katherine’s words, but now he twisted to face her head-on and grabbed her by the shoulders, his eyes wild. “Absolutely not!”

Katherine eased his hands off of her. “You don’t have veto power on this, Jack. If you have legitimate reasons to object, we’ll discuss them right here with the rest of the boys. If you’re objecting for emotional reasons, we’ll discuss those privately after we’ve reached a decision as a group, alright?”

Jack sprang to his feet and stalked from the room, his tread so heavy that Katherine expected the downstairs neighbors to pull out a broom and start banging at their ceiling (her floor) any second. But the only bang she heard was the front door of the apartment swinging shut as Jack slammed it behind him. 

“Well, that went about as well as I expected,” she quipped, shifting uneasily on the floor. The boys shot glances at each other and silently agreed to ignore the couple’s short fight.

“Why undercover, Kath?” Race said, propping his head in his hands.

“In case someone recognizes her name from the paper, Race,” Crutchie said slowly, puzzling it through out loud. “And she’ll have a lot more access if she’s posing as part of the gang rather than asking questions about it from the outside.”

Katherine nodded. “And people tend to overlook women, so they won’t be as suspicious of me as they would if one of you went in alone. If I can work my way into the right circles, I’ll overhear things and find papers that could bring the Five Points Gang down.” 

Davey made a face at that. “I dunno if I’d go that far, Kath. They’ve got close links to Tammany Hall, and no matter what we dig up, I doubt it’ll be enough to get the dirty politicians to turn on some of their most reliable voters.”

“Vote early, vote often,” muttered Race, thwacking his cigar against his thigh. 

“But I bet we could convince ‘em to back off the newsies, at least,” said Crutchie. “Not as good as taking the gang apart, but better’n nothin’. An’ it’ll mean the world ta the boys.”

“They’ll back off if we threaten ‘em with the power of the press,” Jack said from the doorway, where he’d reappeared like a sudden thundercloud, his arms crossed tightly across his chest and his face still dark. The rest of the group jumped at his voice and waited for him to continue. Jack didn’t cross the threshold of the room, choosing to stay in the doorway instead, but his voice was calm and even. “Rats hate it when ya shine a light on the underbelly of their crooked dealin’s. An’ there ain’t no light brighter than the light of _The Sun_ , yeah?” He shifted his shoulders, set his jaw, and looked at Katherine. “Kath’s idea is a good one, an’ I don’t think we’ll come up with better. But a lot of the cops is on the take, too, so we gotta make sure whatever we print –or threaten ta print– is big enough that they can’t ignore it.”

Some of the tension fled from Katherine’s face, and her eyes twinkled. “I bet my father can help with that. He’s very good at threatening and bullying people who try to cut in on the way he runs his paper.”

“Don’t we know it,” Crutchie said with a chuckle. “Alright, so lemme make sure I got this straight. Kath goes undercover in the gang, rakes the muck, an’ once she’s got some rich dirt, we tells Kelly that either he leaves the newsies alone or Mighty Joe’ll make sure them Five Points boys starts gettin’ arrested?”

“Something like that,” Katherine said. She bit her lip and thought for a moment. “Our immediate problem with this plan is that it will probably take a while to spring the trap, and the newsies don’t have that kind of time. So I don’t know what you’re thinking, Race, but I’d say that until we get things settled, you should pay the protection money. I’ll give you enough before you go to offset the hit the boys will be taking.”

“I agrees with ya about the protection money, but I ain’t lettin’ ya put yourself in danger like this for my boys, Kath,” Race growled. “If anyone’s goin’ undercover, it’s me.” 

Davey shook his head. “That won't work, Race; more than half of the gang knows you on sight from having personally antagonized you over the last month. We have to send in someone they won’t recognize, and that cuts out the two of us.”

“Yeah, but it don’t cut me out,” said Jack in a low voice, pushing himself off of the doorframe and into the room. “I know you’re set on this, Ace, an’ I know you can do it, so there’s no use jawin’ about that any more. But when you go, I’m goin’ with you. I ain’t—” He paused and licked his lips. “I’m not going let you do this alone. I just went down to the pay phone outside an’ called up my boss to tell him I was sick with pneumonia and would be mailin’ in my cartoons until I heal up. So you an’ me are goin’ in as a pair, an’ don’t you dare argue with me.”

“I love arguing with you, dear heart,” she said, standing and crossing the room to hold his sturdy, scarred hands in her own, which were warm and stained with ink. “But I’m not going to argue with you about this. You’ll be able to get access to parts of the gang that I can’t, and, well…” She blushed a little. “I’d feel much better if you were with me, too.” She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek and then whispered in a voice so quiet that only he could hear it, “Thank you.” Jack dipped his head and shoved his hands into his pockets before retreating to the doorframe. He was clearly still upset about Katherine’s proposal, but since he couldn’t come up with a better plan, he was going to fully support hers.

“Now what?” Race said, kicking his legs against the couch.

“Now we plot out the logistics,” Davey said. “We need to dye Jack & Kath’s hair, invent and rehearse a cover story for them, find a squalid place for them to live, figure out how to get them in with the gang, teach Kath how to talk and dress and act like a tenement girl, set up a system for keeping in touch with them while they’re undercover, inform Pulitzer and get his backing for all of this, and pray that nothing goes wrong.” He ticked each of these items off on a finger as he listed them out. “Oh, and Kath has to get the story cleared by her editor.”

“Almost out of fingers there, Davey,” Jack said wryly.

“Going undercover is complicated,” Davey said, crossing his legs and lacing his hands behind his head. “And if you two are going to pull this off, you need to be as prepared as possible. Rushing into the Five Points Gang would be the height of stupidity, if you ask me.”

“No one did,” Race muttered.

Davey pulled off his cap to smack Race with it, and Race lunged across the couch to slap at Davey. The two boys tussled for a bit, with Davey yelping in indignation as he tried to push Race off and escape from the couch. Jack and Crutchie exchanged looks, and then Crutchie got up from his chair, rapped Race on the legs with his crutch, and said, “Knock it off, Racetrack.” Race grunted and gave Davey one last punch to the chest before letting his hands fall limply onto his knees. Davey straightened his shirt and waistcoat and glared at Race, who had fallen back against the couch, limp as a leaf of soggy spinach. Crutchie eyed the two boys and then nudged Race’s foot. “Scoot over, Racer. Lemme sit in between you two hellions.”

“I’m hardly a hellion,” Davey said under his breath, quietly enough so that Race couldn’t hear. Crutchie did, though, and he gave Davey a sympathetic smile. They left it at that; both of them knew that Race’s outburst had nothing to do with Davey or his attempt to swat Race with his cap. Race needed an outlet for his self-loathing over what had happened to Elmer, and Davey had been the only person within punching distance when Race couldn’t hold it in any longer. Simple as that. Best to ignore it and move on.

“Right, then,” said Katherine, trying to get things back on track. “Between the four of us, I’d say we could get all of this set up within a week. How does that sound?”

“Peachy,” Jack said, scuffing his bare feet against the floor. “Peachy keen.” He sighed, still unhappy about the whole situation, but he brushed his own emotions aside when his eyes flicked to Race, who was slumped at the edge of the couch, head hung low, eyes unfocused. Jack's protective instincts kicked in like a shot at the sight of the mouthy and eternally buoyant Race looking like a puppy kicked to the curb. “Racer, how’s about you an’ me go buy some hair dye an’ have a chat about how ta get me an’ Kath inta Paul Kelly’s gang, yeah? An’ I’d like your advice on pickin’ horses for this weekend’s Sheepshead races, too, if ya don’t mind.”

Race rose slowly from the couch, his posture that of an old man. “Okay,” he said, jamming his cigar into his mouth.

Once Race made it to the doorway, Jack clapped him on the back. “We’ll see you kiddos later,” he said to the other three, and shepherded Race out of the apartment. 

They waited until they heard the door shut behind Jack and Race, and then Crutchie twisted sideways to spread his legs out where Race had just been sitting. “Whew,” he said, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead. “You alright, Dave?”

“Yeah." Davey shrugged and rubbed at a sore spot on his arm. "He wasn’t punching that hard.” Then he clapped his hands together and flashed a wolfish smile. “So, shall we plan an undercover operation to pull one over on one of the nastiest gangs in New York City?”

“Let’s shall!” Katherine grinned, springing up to grab some paper and pencils from her desk. “Operation Elmer's Revenge: The Battle of the Kellys starts now!” She skipped back to the coffee table and dropped her supplies on top of it with a clatter. “The name needs a little work, I’ll admit, but… we’ll get there.” 

Laughing, the three friends bent their heads and started brainstorming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tammany Hall was the political machine in New York City at the time; the Five Points Gang messed with elections to ensure that Tammany Hall's chosen candidates would win. One of the methods they used was sending members of the gang out to vote multiple times, hence Race's reference to the slogan "vote early, vote often." Although this phrase is most often associated with corrupt Chicago politics, it actually predates Capone's usage of it. The Five Points Gang lasted as long as it did because Tammany Hall protected it.
> 
> (Not above begging for comments :P)
> 
> <3 thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack tries to infiltrate the Five Points Gang.

Jack bounced nervously on the balls of his feet before rounding the corner onto Stanton Street. _You can do this, Jackie boy. You can do this. And even if you can’t, you have to. Go._ He took a deep breath, straightened out his habitual slouch, and walked briskly to number 24. It was a dilapidated storefront with a cheap sign on the door that read “Paul Kelly Association.”

Jack pushed open the door and swaggered into the dimly lit front room. It smelled of sawdust and sweat, and as his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that he’d entered a busy athletic club, full of boys just itching to unload their frustration and insecurities and loneliness by punching something. Anything. Any _one_. To that end, most of the place was outfitted with boxing equipment. There was a full-sized boxing ring in the center of the room, where two men in their early twenties were throwing left hooks and quick uppercuts at one another. The rest of the room was populated by equally aggressive young men. Everywhere he looked, there were rough-looking boys whaling away at punching bags, lifting makeshift weights, and jumping rope so quickly that the braided twine was just a blur.

Jack had laughed when Davey warned him that the air in the Association was hazy with violence, but he shouldn’t have. Davey was right. The boys here were something else. Nervous, Jack moved to tip up his newsie cap, only to find air where his cap should have been. He kicked himself internally and turned the motion into a comb-through of his newly-darkened hair. _Undercover Jack don’t wear no newsie cap, you dummy._ Crutchie had suggested that Jack lose the cap, which was sensible, but the lack of it put him on edge.

Oh well, at least not wearing a hat meant that the world could admire his new hairdo. Katherine had cut it short on the sides, in the style of a newly arrived immigrant who’d had a lice scare, and she’d helped him dye it, too. He and Race had come back from their shopping trip last week with ten different colors of hair dye, partly because examining every single bottle and picking out a variety of them had kept Race’s thoughts away from unresolved fears, and partly because they hadn’t known what to get, anyway. Katherine dismissed every bottle of blonde or reddish color and selected two different shades of brown, a rich chocolate shade for herself and a much darker one for Jack. They’d had quite a time trying not to drip hair dye on the tub, their clothing, or the floor, but somehow they managed. The result was startling; Katherine’s auburn tresses had turned a deep walnut, and his own hair was now so dark as to be nearly black. Between the new cut and color, he hardly recognized himself.

Katherine had wanted to cut her hair short, as well, but he’d pleaded with her not to. Jack loved Katherine’s hair—he loved winding his fingers in it at night, brushing it gently aside to kiss her neck, tugging playfully at her curls and watching them bounce back into place. Eventually she’d given in, swayed by Jack’s argument that if she wore it up in a bun all the time then that’d be as good as cutting it in terms of keeping her from being recognized. Besides, Katherine would be stuck with her short hair even after they finished their Five Points investigation, and neither of them was thrilled by that idea.

Jack shoved his hands into the pockets of his coarse pants and stepped up to a sturdy fellow who was making entries in a ledger book on the side of the room. “Afternoon.”

The man finished the line he was writing and then looked up. “Afternoon.”

“I heard this was the place for an’ ambitious young lad ta go ta get trained up in, uh, boxin’?”

The man looked him up and down. “It’s a private association.”

Jack shrugged. “Any association worth joinin’ is private.”  

“Can’t promise ya a membership.”

Jack gave him an insulted look. “I’s just lookin’ for a trial run. I ain’t sure I’ll like you fellas, either, ya know.”

The man gave a short laugh. “Fair enough. Ya got any experience, Mr...?”

“Name’s Cormac Murphy. I goes by Mack.” Jack had wanted to go with the undercover name of Vaccarelli to pay this Paul fellow back for swiping and sullying Jack’s own surname –one of the few things he still had left of his parents– but Race had quickly dissuaded him from that by means of a sock in the arm and a quip about Jack’s lousy fake Italian accent. So they'd picked something Irish and something that rhymed with Jack because, as Davey pointed out, he needed to respond immediately to his undercover name, and he'd be more likely to do that if it sounded like his actual name. “I ain’t got no formal trainin’," Jack continued, "But I’s handy with my punches.”

The man adjusted his fedora and stuck out his hand. “Francesco Ferrara. Frank for short.” He was clearly using this handshake as a way to quickly assess Jack’s strength, so when the boy withstood it to his satisfaction, he nodded. “All right, then, Mack, let’s see how you do against one of the boys here.” 

Jack was one of the most physical boys in the lodging house, he enjoyed a good tussle to get the blood going and keep his instincts sharp, and goodness knows he had the street smarts and the stamina to come out on top of nearly any fight, but even he felt a little out of his element here. In the newsies’ world, if you beat someone up, then you moved up the pecking order and the loser left you alone. In the Five Points world, Jack was willing to bet that if you beat someone up, they’d lick their wounds and leave, but then they’d go get three of their buddies and come back to rip you a new one. In a world ruled by brutality, it was best to be near the top, but not quite at the top. And he had no idea where his opponent stood in the Association hierarchy. This was going to be tricky. 

He rolled his shoulders and gave himself a mental shake. He’d be flying blind a lot for the next few… days? Weeks? Months? He wasn’t sure, but that was kind of the point—he wasn’t going to be sure of much at all for the foreseeable future, and he just had to make the best of it. And, as he reminded himself, that’s how he’d lived up until he’d landed his illustration gig, so really this was just a return to form.

Frank gave a whistle and motioned over one of the boys who was hammering away at a punching bag in the corner. Jack did his best not to flinch as he sized up his opponent, who was toweling the sweat off of his athletic frame as he walked towards them. Where Jack was sturdy but slim, this boy was breadth and bulk. He easily had thirty pounds and three inches on Jack, not to mention actual boxing experience and home field advantage. Jack hid his nerves by shucking his waistcoat, shirt, shoes, and socks, but standing in his undershirt and trousers in front of this Adonis only made him feel less prepared than ever.

Frank clapped the half-dressed Jack on the shoulder and pointed to the newcomer. “This here’s Sal. One of our best. Not _the_ best, mind, but he could be someday.” Great. Well, at least now Jack knew where this kid was in the pecking order. “Now no goin’ easy on Mack, alright, Sal? We needs ta know if he’s worthy of becomin’ a member of the prestigious Paul Kelly Association or not.”

Sal nodded and jerked his head at Jack to follow him over to the boxing ring, while Frank cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Hey, Donny, Bert, clear outta there, we got a new guy what wants ta prove ta us we should let 'im in the club.” This announcement not only got the two sparring boys to disengage and duck under the ropes that surrounded the makeshift boxing ring, but it also caused every other young man in the room to turn and cluster around the square on the floor where Jack feared he was about to lose both his dignity and more than a little blood.

Sal and Jack entered the ring and retreated to opposite corners. Sal looked loose and limber, whereas Jack felt anything but. He’d fought men Sal’s size before, yes, but he’d never so much as tried legitimate boxing. Street fights were all he knew. He also knew that Katherine still found him handsome with black eyes and split lips, but what about missing teeth? What a thing to end their relationship... Maybe he could get dentures...  _Stop it, Jack. Focus. Do this for Elmer and the boys. They’s worth more than a few lousy teeth._

“How many rounds we goin’, Frank?” Sal asked, his voice higher than Jack expected.

“Til I says stop,” Frank replied, tucking his ledger into the pocket of his waistcoat and leaning back against the wall to watch the fight. “Ready, men?” Both boys nodded. “Alrighty, then. Round one starts now!”

Jack held his arms up in a fighting stance and hopped from foot to foot like he’d seen Donny and Bert doing earlier. He tried to dredge up the knowledge he’d gained from watching underground boxing matches as a newsie—he and the boys would occasionally make a Friday night of a fight, going out to drink and gamble and cheer on the local borough boy against the villain that the fight organizers had brought in that week from elsewhere in the city. But he hadn’t done that in ages. Nowadays he usually spent his Friday nights working on cartoons and illustrations, playing cards with Crutchie and whichever other newsies had stopped by the tiny boarding house room, speaking at workers’ rights rallies, or making dinner and spending a quiet night in with Katherine. Unfortunately, none of that was helpful just now.

He and Sal moved closer to the center of the ring, eyeing each other up. They began by testing each other out with quick jabs towards the body and feints at the head, but neither one was able to land any solid hits. Then Jack felt his head snap back as Sal rocketed a punch to Jack’s chin. He squeezed his eyes shut as pain spread through him like an ink stain and bloomed behind his eyes. Alright, so Sal had a nice right hook. Good to know. Jack danced back to give himself a few seconds to shake the black spots from his vision and readied himself for Sal’s next blow. Jack managed to wind Sal with a left-handed jab at the boy’s side, but Sal got him back with a quick one-two combination that left Jack gasping on the floor of the ring.

“Okay, boys, take five. Get some water, mop up the blood, get ready for round two.” Frank leaned his long body against the ropes of the ring and began speaking to Sal, probably giving him notes on Jack’s poor technique and his glaring weak spots. Jack, on the other hand, had no one in his corner; that was something that hadn’t happened to him in a while, and he couldn’t say he’d missed the feeling. Although someone had left a glass of water and a towel for him on the floor of the ring, none of the boys milling about came to offer Jack an encouraging word or a clap on the back, and Jack was left alone with his thoughts. The five minute break sped by as Jack tried to towel off his sweat, stanch the bleeding in his mouth, and regroup for the next round. He felt frantic inside, but outside he was the same old confident, cocky Jack Kelly, just with a few new bruises. Even though his theory on fear had been proved wrong time and time again, some part of him still hoped that if you didn't show fear, you wouldn't feel it, either. And since fear wasn't going to get him out of this situation, he wasn't going to let it get him in any worse trouble, either.

“Ready?" Frank said. "Round two starts now!”

Jack hung back a little longer this time, blinking away sweat as he tried to spot a weakness, any weakness, in Sal’s self-assured stance. But he knew that if he stayed in his corner for too long, he’d look like a coward, and that would scuttle his chances of making it into the Five Points Gang no matter how well he fought. So he edged forward warily, his eyes darting from Sal’s arms to Sal's feet, trying to spot a tell that would give Jack enough time to defend himself, even if he couldn’t land a counterpunch. But even though he could see Sal’s weight shift in time to predict where the boy was moving next, he simply wasn’t good enough at boxing to ward off Sal’s disciplined attack. It took less than two minutes for Jack to end up lying on the floor of the ring again, spitting blood and curled protectively around his rapidly purpling ribs.

“Two-nothin’ ta Sal,” Frank said –unnecessarily, Jack thought. “Up an’ at ‘em, Mack. Round three starts… now.”

Jack had barely had time to rise to his feet when Sal’s next onslaught rained down on him. He didn’t even try to punch back this time, he simply crouched down and covered his head with his arms.

Sal spat in disgust, his saliva landing on Jack’s back. “We done yet, Frank?”

“No,” said the lanky Italian. “Again. Get up, Mack.”

It took a minute for Jack to process what Frank had said, by which time Sal had already hauled him to his feet and proceeded to sock him twice more in the side. Jack stumbled against the ropes and, through the buzzing in his ears, heard the jeers and boos of the boys assembled to watch what had become a most disappointing fight. He was getting creamed. It was obvious he wasn't anywhere near as good as Sal, and no one here had a personal grudge against him, so why did Frank keep the fight going? He’d surely seen enough to know that Jack was no boxer. Besides, what on God's green earth did boxing have to do with extorting money, rigging elections, and threatening immigrants and newsies, anyway? Why were they doing this? Why were they… _Oh._ A lightbulb went on in Jack’s head.

He blinked rapidly to dispel some of the fog clouding his vision, and then he launched himself off the ropes and straight at Sal. The taller boy rolled his eyes and got back into his fighting stance, but Jack ignored Sal’s sterling technique and fancy footwork and simply tackled him to the ground. Sal slammed into the concrete, all of his breath escaping him with a whoosh, as Jack locked his legs around the other boy’s hips and began pummeling Sal for all he was worth. Sal wriggled, trying to flip Jack off of him, but Jack simply lowered his center of gravity even further and smashed Sal’s nose in. At this, the young man bucked in pain and succeeded in tossing Jack off of him, but Jack didn’t give him a chance to do any more than that, as he leapt to his feet and began kicking Sal in the ribs and stomach. The noises Sal was making reminded Jack of the Refuge, and Jack could feel the bile rising in his throat. He didn’t _want_ to do this, why was he doing this, he was an animal, he was a gutter rat, he was a worthless piece of scum beating someone up for no good reason at all, he should’ve let Sal clobber him until things went dark, but he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t, he was back on top of Sal, still punching and kicking and howling in rage, and why was he doing this, and why was he like this, and how could he live with himself, how could anyone ever love him, and how long had this been going on, and for the love of mercy someone please stop him, someone stop him, he didn't want to do this, not any of it, help help help help and then he felt hands pulling him off of Sal and patting him on the back. 

“Impressive, kid,” Frank said in his ear. Jack wasn’t sure if it was Frank tugging him back or if the man had called over another boy to help get Jack off of Sal, because even though his eyes were open, he couldn’t see a thing. The world had gone black with his anger, and Jack wasn't sure when the darkness would fade. His hearing was fine, though, and the older man’s words tunneled into Jack's brain and lodged there, bouncing around with the whoosh of his blood and the buzz of his rage. “Welcome ta the Association.”

Jack didn’t answer, too overwhelmed by the kettledrum beating of his heart and the force of his revulsion at himself. Frank didn’t seem to notice or care about Jack's silence, though, as he was engaged in directing a couple of the other boys to get some washcloths, alcohol, and bandages to clean Jack up. Still swathed in darkness, Jack felt himself being guided under the ropes of the ring and onto a small wooden stool. He registered awestruck voices saying things like, “I ain’t never seen an initiation like that, that was a doozy,” “You’s a real animal, Mack, ya gots ta teach me some of those tricks,” “How come we ain’t heard of you afore now, you’s got real talent,” and “Wait’ll I tell Charlie what he missed, that was amazin’!”

Then he felt the soft tug of pilled rags blotting up the blood on his face. Jack shuddered and bit his lips, fighting the urge to scream. Normally either Jack cleaned himself up or got Katherine or Davey to help; he wasn’t used to unfamiliar hands touching him like this. Especially not when he couldn't see who it was. A growl rose in his throat and his stomach lurched again as the stranger's hands moved to his arm. He hated this. He hated it. He hated Frank, he hated Sal, he hated Paul Kelly, he hated the Five Points Gang, and, most of all, he hated himself. He was despicable. Why was he like this? How could he do such a thing? How could he ever face Kath and the boys after this? He was a monster, they shouldn't be near him... Lost in his thoughts, he sat as if frozen until he felt calloused hands starting to tug up his undershirt.

“Let it alone!” He snarled, his vision finally starting to clear as he jerked backwards and slapped the hands off him. Jack found himself glaring at a skinny, green-eyed boy with unruly blonde hair.

“But your chest is bleedin’,” the boy said, pointing to a series of bright red lines expanding across Jack’s undershirt. _How had that happened? Had Sal brought a knife into play?_ Jack looked wonderingly down at the blood at his chest and the slashes on his arms. Definitely a pocketknife or a switchblade; good thing it hadn’t been a bowie knife. Jack dabbed gingerly at some of the scarlet spots on his undershirt, uncertain they were real until he winced at the pain of touching them. Heaven only knew when Sal had pulled the knife out, because Jack couldn’t remember a bit of it. Did the fact that Sal had tried to gut him mean that he could feel less awful about beating the boy to a pulp? He wasn’t sure. He hadn't _known_ Sal was slashing at him, after all. And he doubted that it was okay to be awful as long as someone else was worse. How could he have done this? _How?_ Jack felt tears prick behind his eyes. He hadn't felt this low in years; he bet the nightmares would be back tonight. And what on earth was he going to tell Katherine...? The tousle-haired boy brought Jack back to the present by moving Jack’s hand away and saying, “We gots ta get that cleaned up.”

“I’ll do it myself,” he said, his eyes flashing as he shoved the boy off him again. No matter how bad he felt, no one but Katherine and Crutchie got to see Jack’s scars.

“Okay,” the boy said, drawing the word out into several unconvinced syllables and returning his attention to Jack’s arms.

Frank came over then and clapped Jack on the back, drawing an oof from Jack and a cry of protest from Jack’s little nurse. “Watch it, Frank, I’s tryin' ta get him cleaned up!”

Frank laughed. “You's wastin' your time, Flip. This kid ain’t meant ta be clean, not when he fights that dirty!” Frank gave Jack another slap on the back. “That was a real show ya put on there, Mack. Paul Kelly’ll be glad ta have ya on the team. Are ya new in town? Ya gots a place ta stay?”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “Kinda new, I guess,” he said. “M’wife an’ I’s been in tha city a coupla years now, but we just moved down ta Manhattan hopin’ the work’d be better here. Too many men uptown ain’t hirin’ Irish blokes. But Manhattan ain't no better'n anywhere else; we don’t really know no one in this part of town yet, the place we’s at is about ta kick us out, an’ I’m havin’ trouble findin’ anythin’ what pays steady.”

“Well, bein’ a member of the Association don’t necessarily mean steady pay,” Frank mused, “But when it does pay, it pays good enough ta make up for the days it don’t pay at all.” He pulled out his ledger and flipped to the back. “An’ if what I saw today is any indication of what you can do, then we can certainly help with your housing situation.”

Jack shot Frank a disbelieving look. “You what? Really?”

“Sure. We takes care of our members around here. Don’t we, Flip?”

The blonde boy nodded and finished bandaging up the last of the cuts on Jack’s arms. “He won’t let me clean up his chest, Frank,” he said. “So don’t get mad at me ‘bout that.”

Frank laughed. “Wantin’ ta leave some battle scars for the missus ta kiss all better, eh?” He ruffled Jack’s hair and grinned. “I’ll let ya get home ta do that, then, but stop by tomorrow, Mack, an’ we’ll get ya set up with some work, some pay, an’ a nice new apartment.” 

“I... th… thank you,” Jack stuttered, still a little woozy with pain and hate and adrenaline.

“Don’t mention it,” Frank said. “I think you’ll be doin’ more than enough for us ta earn anythin’ we gives ya. Now skedaddle an’ get those cuts tended to.”

Jack nodded and stumbled over to the wall where he’d laid his clothes. He winced as he bent over to pick up his things, pulled on his socks, shoes, and button-down shirt, and staggered out of the Paul Kelly Association. He needed to find Katherine. He needed to find her and tell her that he’d done it. They were in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paul Kelly’s real name was Paolo Antonio Vaccarelli. He was an Italian immigrant.
> 
> Copied & pasted from Wikipedia:  
> "In 1903 Kelly was arrested for assault and robbery and served nine months in jail. On release, Kelly formed the Paul Kelly Association, an athletic club which he used to recruit younger criminals for his organization. The headquarters were located at 24 Stanton Street."
> 
> I hope you guys still like Jack after this chapter? I wrote it this way because I feel like he could be really dangerous and just completely lose himself when pushed too far. Also, in this situation not only did he need to prevent himself from getting clobbered, but also he had no loyalty to the boy he was fighting, he had to get accepted into the gang in order to help the newsies, and he had to take the fight to a level of brutality that would earn him enough respect to keep from being messed with. But basically I think he just lost it. Boy's got demons. Hopefully you don't feel that's OOC? (Please don't hate this chapter... talk to me! <3)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Katherine gets a bit of a scare.

Katherine had just finished folding her new (old) clothes and arranging them in the ragged travel valise she’d gotten from Davey when she heard the series of clicks that meant the apartment’s front door was being unlocked. “Jack!” She called, even before she’d run into the hallway. “Jack, how’d it—” The words died in her throat and she skidded to a stop at the sight of Jack, _her_ Jack, covered in bruises, leaning back against the door, his head tipped up and his eyes closed. Even more alarming than the sight of his arms covered in bandages and his faded blue shirt tracked with lines of blood was the look of utter despair on his face. “Jack?”

No response.

She picked up her skirts and raced toward him, her mind nearly numb with fear. “What happened, love?”

Still nothing. 

She stopped just in front of him and stretched out a hand. “Jack. I’m going to touch you now, if that’s alright?” 

He shook his head violently. “No. No, don’t.” 

“Okay,” she said calmly, despite the tingling fear that was radiating from her chest. “Would you come sit down in the living room?” 

She saw the muscles in his neck go taut and he shook his head again.

“Okay. I’m going to the kitchen to get you a glass of water, and then I’ll be right back.” She saw Jack swallow and took that as confirmation that he’d heard and understood her. When she returned moments later, he’d slid down to the floor, his hands gripping his bent knees and his head still tipped back against the door. She scanned his face for cuts like those on his arms and, presumably, under his shirt, but luckily she saw only bruises. Nasty bruises, to be sure, but bruises didn't scar. And besides, she’d seen him with worse.

“Jack, darling, I’ve put the water by your right hand, and now I’m going to sit next to you.” He stayed perfectly still as she sank down beside him, bunching her long skirts under her legs. “Would you like me to be quiet or keep talking?” 

There was a long pause before Jack finally croaked out a low “Dunno.” 

“Okay. I’ll do a little of both, then.” She stretched her legs out parallel to his, laid her hands in her lap, and thought for a moment. What did he need? What was he so afraid of that it would paralyze him like this? She wished she could type this interaction up before it happened, plot it out on paper, rearrange the sentences into an order that made sense and reduce the emotional uncertainties to logical facts. Writing had always come easier to Katherine than speaking did; writing could be edited and words could be cut if they came out too sharp, which was helpful, since her tongue had a mind of its own. And even when writing forced her to say less, it allowed her to express more. Writing let Katherine be considered and lyrical and vulnerable in a way she never was out loud, and she wanted to be all of those things for Jack right now. She wanted to find the perfect words for him, the words that would salve his wounds and bring him back to her, and she'd never find them just by talking. Her heart ached for him, and her head pounded as she racked her brains for just what to say. Which words were the right ones? What was the story here? What could she possibly say that would make this better and not worse?  _Don't screw this up, Katherine! Fish the right words out of the ocean, let's go..._  He needed her, and she wanted to give him her absolute best. And she was at her best when she was writing, not when she was giving extemporaneous pep talks. But writing had never been the best way to reach Jack, and it certainly wasn't going to reach him now, seeing as he wasn't even able to open his eyes. _Just say something, Katherine. It doesn't really matter what. Just talk to him. Tell him you're here. All he's ever wanted is for someone to be there for him. And you're here, aren't you? And you always will be. So remind him of that._

She took a deep breath. “Whatever happened, dear heart, whatever they did to you, whatever you did to them, whatever is coming towards us, I love you forever and always." She felt her anxiety begin to fade. "You know that, don’t you? You are a good man, Jack. You are good and kind and smart and strong and there is nothing in the world that could ever make me stop loving you.” Even though his eyes were still tightly shut, she couldn’t help but smile at him. “I love you more than words can say, my darling. I love you more than my father loves his paper, I love you more than Race loves those smelly cigars, I love you more than Davey loves books. I love you more than meat loves salt, Jack Kelly. I love you to the moon and back.” She saw tears start to leak from the corners of his eyes and, although she longed to wipe them away, he hadn't given her permission to touch him yet, so she just kept talking. “And you know what else, heart of my heart? You deserve every last bit of that love. You are worthy of my love, you are worthy of the boys’ love, you are worthy of your friends’ love, and no matter what happened today, you always will be. You are enough, and you are loved, just as you are.” 

Jack tipped his head forward into his arms and began to cry, making high-pitched, shuddering sounds that wracked his bruised body and set the cuts on his torso bleeding afresh. 

“I’d like to hug you, Jack. Is that alright?” She saw him nod slightly and moved to his side, placing her left hand atop the split knuckles of his left hand and laying her right arm across his back. She kept that arm still for a second and then began rubbing his back in smooth, slow circles, the fabric of his shirt wrinkling under her touch. “It’s okay, darling. It’s okay. Whatever happens, you and I will face it together, and we’ll win out. You’ll see.” She kept rubbing and patting his back even after she’d run out of words to say and the only sounds in the apartment were Jack’s choked sobs and jerky breaths. Eventually even those subsided, and they sat in near silence, listening as their breathing began to synchronize. 

Katherine was so lost in her own thoughts by the time Jack did speak that she nearly didn’t register his words. “We’re in,” he said, his voice scratchy. 

She blinked. She’d been certain that Jack’s appearance and distress meant that he’d failed to be accepted into the gang and was worried about letting the boys down. But apparently something else was the matter. So, as much as she wanted to cheer at the news that he’d done it, that they could start taking the Five Points Gang down from the inside, she kept her voice measured and picked her next words with care. “I’m glad of that, darling. Now, what’s got you so upset?”

“Me,” he said, turning his face towards her. “I’s a monster, Ace.” 

“Alright. Why do you say that?” 

His green eyes locked onto hers, glittering with fierce self-loathing and the threat of further tears. “I stomped a kid real bad back there, Ace. I had ta fight him ta get us inta the gang, an’ that I c’n live with, but I kept goin’ even after I’d won. I just kept kickin’ his ribs an’ bashin’ his face in even when he weren’t a threat no more, even when he were lyin’ on the ground an’ I knew he weren’t gonna do nothin’ ta me.” He paused and licked his lips. “Only a bad person’d do that. So I’s got ta face facts. I’s got evil insida me, always have.” He closed his eyes again and dropped his voice. “I thought I’d got it out with the strike, I thought I’d gotten better, but I ain’t. An’ that means you needs ta leave me, Ace. Ya need ta leave me so’s I don’t hurt you, too.” 

Katherine took a deep breath. She’d been afraid something like this would happen. Maybe she should have brought it up with him before he went in, helped him ready himself for the possibility, but she hadn’t wanted to upset him unnecessarily, so she’d left it alone. Now, looking at Jack’s battered body and the bloody shirt that spoke of wounds desperately needing her attention, she figured she’d made the wrong choice.

“Jack,” she said, running her hand along the newly shaved side of his scalp, “You are not a bad person. You are not evil. No matter how angry you get, no matter how bad you feel, you have never, not once, beaten up anyone who didn’t provoke you. And even when provoked, you never hurt anyone you care about. And that’s not how a bad man handles things, Jack. You’re not a bad man.”

“But I kept goin’ when I didn’t need ta,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by his folded arms.

“Yes, because you’re not a perfect man, either,” she replied, rubbing his split knuckles with her thumb. “Should you have stopped as soon as you’d won? Yes. Are you a bad person now that you’ve made one bad decision? No.” She sighed, not in exasperation but in sadness for all he’d been through. “Look, Jack, I know you hate talking about the Refuge, but what they did to you back there is going to resurface every now and again. I think you responded the way you did because the Refuge taught you that if you show any mercy, any little kindness, to someone who’s attacking you, then they’ll exploit it and hurt you even more.” Jack had turned his head back to her and opened one eye again. “It’s going to take you years to unlearn that lesson, and you haven’t had much chance to practice unlearning it while working an office job. Again, I’m not excusing what you did, and you’re right to be upset with yourself for behaving like that, but it doesn’t define who you are. You made a mistake, an understandable mistake, and you’ll do better next time.” 

“So you don’t hate me?” Jack whispered, and as he spoke, Katherine noticed another cut on his lip. She itched to go get wet rags and alcohol and clean him up better than whoever had bandaged his arms had done, but she had to shepherd him through this first.

“No, dear heart.”

“You ain’t– you’re not scared of me?”

“No.”

“You don’t want me to leave?”

“No. Never.” 

Jack relaxed his shoulders, and his face lost some of its haunted look. “Damn, Ace. Damn if I don’t love you.”

“Damn if I don’t love you, too, Jack Kelly.” She kissed him at the base of his skull, one of the few spots on his skin where she wouldn’t brush against a bruise. He softened still further at her touch, his eyelids fluttering closed and his hunched frame uncurling like a cat in the sun. She laid a hand softly on his head. “Now, how about we get you cleaned up? I’d like to tend to that chest of yours, if you don’t mind.”

“I’d be glad if you would, darlin’,” he said, his voice dreamy. 

She recognized that tone; it meant that he was exhausted and getting just a little loopy. It also meant that if she didn’t get him to the couch soon then she’d be trying to undress, wash, and bandage him right here on the floor, because as soon as Jack Kelly fell asleep there was no moving him.

“Let me help you to the living room, love,” she said, putting her hands around his waist and letting him drape his arm over her shoulders for support as he staggered down the hallway. She helped him ease his way onto the couch, and despite all their care, he groaned softly as he settled onto the cushions and the complaints of his injured body began to tug at his attention. Katherine adjusted a few pillows under his head and brushed some sweat from his brow. “There now, that’s better. You stay put—I’m off to get some antiseptic and a washrag. Go ahead and strip down and then I’ll tend to those cuts while you nap.”

“How much strippin’ are we talkin’ here, Ace? Think maybe you oughta inspect all of me for ta make sure I’m okay?” He grinned.

She rolled her eyes. Well, at least he’d gotten over the worst of his emotional crisis. “Just your shirt and undershirt, wise guy.”

“If you’re sure.” 

“Oh, believe me, I am.”

“Okay. Your loss.” He moved to start undoing the fiddly buttons of his shirt. “An’ I ain’t tired, by the way. Not in the slightest. I’ll never sleep again if it means I get to savor every last moment of you patchin’ me up an’ kissin’ all my bruises.” 

“You’re im _pos_ sible, Jack Kelly.” 

“That’s why you love me.”

“It is. Now shirt off, eyes closed. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Jack smiled as he listened to Katherine’s footsteps retreat down the hallway, and then he gingerly levered himself into a position to pull off his shirt and undershirt, wincing as he tugged away the fabric that had stuck to his skin. Maybe she was right. Maybe he wasn’t a bad person. Maybe he even had the makings of a really good person. Someday, anyway. Maybe this plan was going to work. Maybe they really could take down the scum that was threatening his boys. Maybe… He yawned. Maybe he was more tired than he’d thought.

By the time Katherine returned with a soapy rag and a bottle of rubbing alcohol, Jack was out like a light, his right arm dangling off the couch and his face blessedly serene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's been writing this instead of her conference paper and book review and job applications? It's meeeeeee AAAAAAA 
> 
> (I really need to prioritize better... but writing this is more fun... so encourage me to keep sabotaging my future by letting me know what you think of this story so far! :D)
> 
> I tried to figure out if rubbing alcohol was period appropriate, but I found everything from ‘it was available in Egyptian times!’ to ‘it was first synthesized in 1920,’ and I was doing the research at 2am, so I gave up. So just pretend it’s accurate. And if you’re a chemist then you are cordially invited to tell me otherwise. ☺ 
> 
> (j/k I'm not sabotaging my future I will get everything done on time... it'll happen... or at least it'd better... agh... but you should still let me know what you think because that would make my day! <3)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack and Katherine move in to their new apartment.

“… an’ the bathroom’s on the third floor. Here’s your key,” said the workworn woman, handing a heavy brass key to Jack. She turned and hobbled down the stairs, leaving Katherine and Jack in full possession of their single room. Katherine watched her leave with growing unease, wondering what sort of world she’d stepped into. Their landlady wasn’t much older than thirty; what had happened to make her look and move like someone a good twenty years her senior? As the woman stepped painfully from stair to stair, she called back upstairs, “An’ I knows Paul Kelly paid for your place, ‘cause he pays fer that whole floor, so don’t go tryin’ ta pretend ta me you’s on the straight an’ narrow. But I don’t want no trouble with them Five Pointers, so as long’s you don’t bring me inta whatever you’s doin’, I don’t care whatcha do. I’s just tryin’ ta make a livin’, an’ so long’s I get the rent, I ain’t gonna pry. We unnerstand each other?”

They called an affirmative down to their landlady and then turned to look at each other, Katherine’s eyes wide in surprise and Jack’s narrowed in suspicion. They stood in silence for a moment, Katherine fidgeting on the landing, uncomfortable in her hand-me-down clothes, Jack poised hesitantly with his hand on the doorknob of their new apartment. “Well, darlin’, let’s see what we’re in for,” he said finally, pushing the door inwards.

Katherine moved to his side and clapped her hands over her mouth at the sight of the small room that was to be their home for the next… well, who knew how long. It was depressingly dark, with one small window looking out onto the dilapidated wall of another tenement building. The wooden floors were splattered with unidentifiable stains, and there was mold growing in one corner of the ceiling. The left side of the room had a sink, a stove, and an oven; the right side was completely bare. As Jack stepped into the room, a cockroach skittered over his boot, causing Katherine to give a little yelp. Jack didn’t even seem to notice.

“Better’n I was expectin’,” Jack said, nodding approvingly as he twisted the tap on the faucet to discover that it worked. The nod turned into a happy smile when he found the oven and stovetop to be just as functional. “Kelly must be pretty flush ta put us up here at no cost ta us for the first month. Crutchie an’ my place is a lot smaller, an’ it don’t got no appliances like this, neither.” He turned to Katherine and gave her a wink. “Startin’ pretend married life off in style, I’d say.” 

Katherine tried valiantly to smile back, because she was fully aware that they _were_ lucky to have ended up somewhere like this, that thousands of New Yorkers were raising passels of children in places even more squalid, and that the luxury she was used to was the exception, not something she’d done anything to earn, and not something to look down on others for not having, but all she could muster was a pained quirk of her lips. But even if she’d faked a better smile, Jack knew her too well to have fallen for it. She was going to do her level best to muddle through this with as much grace as possible, to move through Jack’s world without insulting where he’d come from, but right now she was too off-balance to playact. Still, she was giving all she could, and she clung to the knowledge that even when she fell short, he’d still love her for trying. 

He walked over to her and squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Ace, it ain’t as grim as it looks. I c’n sketch us some pictures ta brighten the place up a bit, an’ it’ll feel downright cozy once we unpack those boxes, get us somethin’ ta sleep on, an’ bring in some flowers.” 

“It certainly will,” she said, her voice pitched just a little too high to be believable. “And so our grand adventure begins,” she added unconvincingly, stooping to pick up one of the two boxes they’d brought to the new place. These small boxes contained nearly all of the worldly possessions they’d have while undercover—some battered pots and pans, dishes, flatware, a few changes of clothes, a set of sheets and blankets, basic toiletries, and two notebooks to record what they discovered about the gang. They’d each allowed themselves one luxury item, as well, so as to make the unfamiliar a little more bearable. Jack had chosen a sketchbook with a set of freshly sharpened pencils, and Katherine had brought two books. Jack had raised an eyebrow at this, of course, but she retorted that, technically, his pencils made ten or eleven items just by themselves, so who was he to quibble over one extra book, and besides, one of the books she was bringing was the Bible, and surely he wouldn’t term the Good Book a _luxury_? He’d backed down at that and returned to folding his clothes before placing them in the moving box.

So here they were, two boxes and a grubby room that they couldn’t technically even call their own, getting ready to take on one of the most dangerous gangs in New York City. _What on earth was I thinking, suggesting this?_ Katherine wondered dazedly, opening the flaps on the box and spreading items out onto the warped floor.

“I’s gonna go find us a mattress, Ace. Or two?” Jack looked at her uncertainly. “One’s better f’r our cover story, but that ain’t as important as you bein’ able ta sleep easy.”

Katherine blinked several times and tried to gather her thoughts. She wasn’t in the mood to make any decisions right now, especially not such a loaded one—would he be offended if she asked for two? Would she be jeopardizing their mission if she did? Would she be upset with herself if she gave into the part of her that really did want to share a bed with Jack? Would she be giving into lust or choosing due to practicality?

“Ace?”

_The fact that you’re more worried about sleeping next to Jack than getting caught by Paul Kelly gives you your answer, Katherine._ She rubbed the back of her neck and sighed. “Two, please.”

“Two it is, then, love. You okay here alone for a bit?”

She nodded down into the moving box and lifted out a set of neatly darned clothes.

“Alright then. I’m off.” He paused to give her time to respond, but she knew that if she opened her mouth right now, she’d fall apart. She’d be okay in a bit, once she’d had time to breathe and invent a game to make it all bearable, but right now she was on the verge of tears that she desperately did not want Jack to see. She wanted to collapse alone, cry herself out, and pull herself back together before he returned, so she needed Jack to go, and go now, because her eyes had already started to prickle.

She heard Jack cross the tiny room to bend over and kiss her on her freshly washed hair. “It’ll be fine, you’ll see,” Jack said, just a little too brightly. He paused, his hand hovering over her shoulder, but then he decided against whatever it was he was thinking and walked away from her. “I’ll be back in a jiff, darlin’.” And then he left, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Katherine waited until she was certain he was out of earshot, and then she burst into sobs. She grabbed a towel out of one of the boxes, stuffed it to her mouth to keep from being overheard through the thin walls, and cried until she had nothing left. Then she went to the sink, splashed some water on her face, redid her hair, and smoothed out her skirts. “Come on, Katherine, this is the chance of a lifetime! Buck up.” She glared at herself in the mirror and rubbed impatiently at her swollen eyes. It was time to start exploring, goshdarnit, but she couldn’t go outside looking like a tragic waif. Oh well; she’d just have to do her unpacking first and her exploring second. She gave a feral smile as she turned away from the sink, resolving that within the hour she'd be learning the neighborhood, pounding the pavement, and ferreting out every last one of the Five Points Gang's sordid little secrets. Look out, Paul Kelly; Katherine Plumber was on the warpath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Jiff" as a shortened version of "jiffy" dates to 1791. "Buck up" dates to 1844. Almost every time I use a colloquialism I figure it can't possibly be period-appropriate, and almost every time I am very, very wrong.
> 
> For those of you wondering whether or not people would’ve/could’ve used cardboard boxes to move back then (because surely some of you were; I know I was as I wrote it :) ), I am going to quote Wikipedia: “The first corrugated cardboard box manufactured in the US was in 1895. By the early 1900s, wooden crates and boxes were being replaced by corrugated paper shipping cartons.” There’s actually a really cool podcast episode of Surprisingly Awesome about the invention of cardboard boxes, how they disrupted and permanently altered the shipping industry, and why they’re so great. You can listen to it here: https://gimletmedia.com/episode/19-cardboard/ .
> 
> I know this chapter doesn't really move things along that much, but... fanfic can be slow sometimes, right? (I think so. Hopefully you think so, too.) It's nice just to spend time with characters sometimes, IMO, even if they're not doing a heck of a lot. Which goodness knows they aren't in this installment. (Urgh. Sorry.) I would've gotten Katherine out the door and chatting to the neighbors at the end there, but if I tried to do that then I honestly don't know when I'd have time to write and edit and post it, so oh well. Instead of having action, have these 1100 words to tide you over until the next time I've had several solid hours to ponder and procrastinate!
> 
> Thanks for all the comments & kudos, loves, they make my day every single time! <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack is a sound sleeper and Katherine is not.

Katherine was dreaming about tap dancing for a good minute before she realized that the sound was actually someone banging at the door. She groaned and rolled off the mattress, knowing Jack would sleep through the din. He’d been a light sleeper in his newsie days and for a year or so into his newspaper job, but once he’d started to believe that his good fortune was real, that the rug wasn’t going to be pulled out from under him and no genie would whisk his world away in the blink of an eye, he’d become increasingly hard to wake. Normally Katherine loved this about him, loved when he spent the night at her apartment and she could wake up early to watch him sleep peacefully, because she knew that each easy breath, each uneventful hour of dreams, was a hard-won gift. Yes, normally she gave unreserved thanks for his ability to sleep through just about anything, because it meant that he was okay, he was healing, he was beginning to process and overcome his past… but she didn’t feel so thankful right now. No, right now she was just a little resentful of his ability to sleep through anything, because right now she felt selfish and on edge and sleep-addled and she wanted _him_ to be the one answering the door, not her. She was still far from comfortable in this new building, and knocks in the middle of the night never brought good news. Especially not in a neighborhood like this. 

“Mack? ‘S Frank,” the man outside called. “Need ya on a job. Open up.”

Katherine tossed off her blanket, shoved her mattress next to Jack’s in order to give the appearance that they were indeed a married couple; happily married, in fact; look, we share a bed, it’s wedded bliss, babies are just around the corner… and opened the door.

The man was looking over his shoulder as she cracked the door open. “It’s about time, Mack, we’s—oh.” He’d turned back and realized he wasn’t speaking to ‘Mack’ at all, but rather to Mack’s frowsy-looking wife, whose curls were fuzzing out from her head like someone who’d stuck her finger in an electrical socket. “Uh, sorry for wakin’ ya, Mrs. Murphy. I’m a friend o’ your husband’s, name o’ Frank. We’s had an emergency at work, an’ we needs him. Urgent-like.” 

Katherine nodded and tried to look as dignified as possible, despite being fully aware that her left cheek had wrinkle imprints from her pillowcase and the corners of her eyes were sticky with sleepies. “He’s a deep sleeper, my husband—mind waitin’ out here a minute an’ I’ll send him out ta ya as soon’s he’s up an’ decent?” She wasn’t sure how her accent was going to go over, but Frank didn’t seem to notice any problems. She sighed in relief and made a mental note to thank Davey for the dialect coaching.

“Sure, sure, that’ll be fine. I’ll wait right here.”

“Thank you,” she said, and closed the door again. After fumbling for and eventually finding the light switch, she crouched down next to Jack and tried to decide how to wake him. This was a problem they hadn’t planned for—normally he got himself out of bed, and on the rare occasions that he didn’t, they’d both learned it was best not to wake him up by touching him, because he sometimes startled and lashed out when that happened. She’d thought it was a fluke at first, but after a second round of early morning punches and slaps that they’d both felt awful about, she’d learned her lesson. And it was definitely not a lesson she needed a refresher course in. But she couldn’t wake him up by calling his name loudly, in case Frank heard. Maybe he’d respond to Mack? Worth a shot.

“Mack? Mack, dear, time to get up.” She scanned his face for a reaction, but Jack was dead to the world. Not so much as a flickering eyelid. Okay, then… She leaned in closer and raised her voice. “Mack! Mack, you need to wake up.” Nothing. How on earth was he sleeping so soundly in this grimy hole of an apartment? Sure, it was the middle of the night, but she hadn’t gotten a full night’s uninterrupted sleep since they’d moved here three days ago, and it was wearing on her patience and her nerves, not to mention her appearance, which was becoming increasingly disheveled, and it’s not as if she was a clothes horse, but she did like to at least look presentable, and it was impossible to do that without sleep, and her brain was _not_ letting her sleep... But Jack had no such trouble, no sir, not him… _Honestly_ , this boy, you’d think he was sleeping on a featherbed at the Ritz in Paris! It wasn’t fair that he could sleep and she couldn’t, and he fit right in here and she didn’t, and he could use his normal accent and wear the clothes he was used to when she was tripping over her tongue and parading around in hand-me-downs, and he had people to interact with -even if they were criminals- while she’d been stuck inside so far, and—well, she snapped.

“Mack!” She yelled straight in his ear, using both hands to shake his shoulder back and forth. “Get up!”

Jack launched himself upright and clocked Katherine in the jaw, sending her tumbling backwards onto her mattress. He went after her, raring back for another blow, and she shrieked. “It’s me, it’s me! Don’t!”

He shook his head and paused, suddenly realizing he was awake and what he was doing. “ _Shit_!” Even in the dimness of the apartment’s single overhead lightbulb, she could see the horror in his eyes. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I—”

She cut him off. “I’m fine, don’t worry. Frank’s in the hallway, says he needs you for a work emergency.” She resisted the urge to rub at her jaw, not wanting to make Jack feel any worse than he already did. If anyone was at fault here, it was her, not him; he’d been asleep, and she knew the risks of waking him up the way she had. “Pull on some clothes and get outside. Hurry, he’s been here a while.”

Jack didn’t budge. “Ace, I—” 

“Save it, _Mack_. Get out there.” She regretted the hurt look on Jack’s face, but she did _not_ want to have a heart to heart with him right now. Even besides the fact that she was in a terrible mood, she could feel Frank waiting, listening, _looming_ on the other side of the door. And that door was thinner than Race’s wallet after a rough day at Sheepshead. She sat up to kiss his cheek. “Go.”

He nodded and turned to the corner where he’d tossed his clothes the night before, slipping into his undershirt and buttoning his suspenders on in silence. He rose from the floor and crossed over to the doorway, pausing with his hand almost on the doorknob. He swallowed hard and looked at her again, his expression one of worry mixed with remorse. “Ace—” 

“It’s okay. _Go_.”

He moved to tip up his newsboy cap and grimaced when his hand met air. “See ya, then,” he said gruffly, and she watched as he readied himself to meet Frank, his expression hardening to hide the man she loved.

“See ya,” she whispered, but he’d already shut the door firmly behind him. She crawled over to the edge of her mattress, where she’d laid her copy of JM Barrie’s _The Little White Bird_ , and clutched it to her chest. She was fine. She could do this. She was Katherine Pulitzer, for heaven’s sakes, and she wasn’t going to let a little dirt and uncertainty bring her down. She bit her lip and focused on the pressure of that rather than the pressure building behind her eyes.

 _Come on, Katherine, come on. Tough stories are your bread and butter, you made your name off a citywide strike, you’re not scared of a lousy bunch of second rate gangsters—you can do this. Read a chapter, get your mind off things_. 

She flipped open the book and read the first sentence three times before taking anything in. “Sometimes the little boy who calls me father brings me an invitation from his mother…” She read aloud. “Sometimes the little boy…” She swallowed, thinking of Jack and how little he’d looked after he’d come back from the Association that first day. Where was Frank taking him? What did they need him for? How much danger was he in? _The book, Katherine. Read the book_. “Sometimes…” Her eyes blurred and she stuck a finger into the bruise that was forming on her jaw, using the pain as a way to distract herself. Jack was fine. He’d be fine. This whole thing was fine. Fine, fine fine.

…she’d be _fine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative summary for this chapter: Angst angst angst. Geez. Sorry, dudes. But they'll both be out and about and doing some investigating in the next chapter, which ought to keep them too busy to be angsty. ;)
> 
> The Ritz opened its first location in Paris in 1898; the second Ritz hotel opened in London in 1906. 
> 
> “Clothes horse” in the sense of someone overly invested in fashionable clothes dates to 1850.
> 
>  _The Little White Bird_ was a book of short stories by JM Barrie that was published simultaneously in the US and the UK in November 1902. It marks the first appearance of Peter Pan and also contains characters based on the Llewelyn Davies family, so I thought it’d be a fun little nod to Jeremy Jordan’s role in Finding Neverland. Here’s a link to it if you want to read it (I haven’t yet, but I might give it a go): http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1376
> 
> I was going to use ‘two-bit’ instead of ‘second rate,’ but apparently two-bit wasn’t used in that way until 1929! There’s your fun fact for the day. (Obviously, I am the Queen of Fun.)
> 
> I knocked two things off my to-do list today so I rewarded myself with an evening off to write fun stuff, but now I'm feeling guilty about doing this instead of doing other things, so... oh well. I hope you liked it! <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Katherine meets the neighbors and Jack gives away a mystery gift.

Katherine took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

A black-haired woman opened it just a crack, looked Katherine up and down, and sniffed. “Yes?” 

“Good mornin’!” Katherine gave the lady a winning smile. “I’m Lydia Murphy—I goes by Liddy, though—an’ my man Mack an’ I are your new neighbors. I’d like ta invite ya to visit at mine, if ya have the time? I’ve just finished bakin’ some blueberry scones, an’ I’ll brew us a nice cup o’ tea.” 

The woman pulled the door a little farther open. “Nice to meet you, Liddy; I’m Lucy. Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m hosting a little women’s sewing circle right now, so I can’t stop by for those scones, but we’d love to have you join us in here.” She smiled and turned her head behind her into the dim one room apartment. “Right, ladies?” A chorus of yeses echoed out. 

Katherine’s hands fluttered. “Oh, I didn’t mean ta interrupt—but if you’re sure it’s alright I’d love to—I mean, I don’t wanna intrude uninvited?” 

The woman laughed and reached out to hold one of Katherine’s hands. “I just invited you, didn’t I? Of course you’re welcome.” 

“Thank you, I’d love that!” Katherine’s eyes sparkled, and she gestured back to her apartment. “I’ll go grab my piecework an’ bring along those scones, too; there’s plenty ta go around.” 

“I’ll leave the door unlocked for you.” Lucy slipped back into her apartment and Katherine bustled down the hall to get her things. It didn’t take her long to gather up the breadbasket of scones and her small sewing bag, because she’d already laid them both on the kitchen table in preparation for Lucy’s invitation. She rejoiced inwardly as she returned to Lucy’s; the last three days being cooped up inside had paid off, thank heavens! 

After hearing the landlady’s offhand remark about how Paul Kelly paid the rent for everyone on their floor, Katherine had decided that the best way for her to cozy up with the gang would be to play the friendly neighbor. But she didn’t want to go in unprepared, so she’d spent the last three days listening at the walls and peering out from the doorway, observing the patterns in the comings and goings of everyone on the floor. 

And while she was taking detailed notes on the appearance, departure and return times, and social connections of everyone she saw, Jack had figured out who lived where and what their role in the gang was. When he’d told her that the apartment four doors down belonged to Angelo Amato, one of Kelly’s top men, Katherine knew exactly what her next move would be. Every morning at 10, a stream of neatly dressed women flowed into the Amato residence. And today, at 10:15, Katherine had finagled her way into being one of them. 

She knocked softly as she slipped into Angelo and Lucia Amato’s apartment and gave a shy wave to the women gathered inside, who were sewing and chattering and snacking on cheese and crackers. Lucy stood and put her arm around Katherine’s shoulders, tugging her in for an awkward sort of almost-hug. “Ladies, this is Liddy Murphy. Her husband Mack is a new member of the Paul Kelly Athletic Association. Seems the employers uptown didn't give him the work he deserved, so the Murphys moved down here, where hardworking fellas can get a fair shake.” She winked at Katherine. “From what my Angelo says, Mack is a fine sportsman, and we are lucky to have him in the Association.” The women smiled knowingly. “And we are lucky to have Liddy here, too, I’m sure. Very glad you could join us today,” she said. “Mack said you were ill? I am so glad you’re on the mend.” 

“Nasty head cold; I’m afraid I’m rather susceptible. I didn’t wanna share it with any of you, but it’s been a lonely few days.” Katherine shook her head and smiled. “Colds in the summer oughta be outlawed, but there ya have it.” She shrugged, an ‘oh well, what can you do?’ motion that set the other women clucking in sympathy. “Anyway, I’m so glad ta finally meet you ladies. Thank you again for lettin’ me join in on the fun this mornin’, Lucy, it’s awfully kind of you.” 

“Oh, nothin’ to thank!” Lucy said, shaking Katherine a little bit in the way overenthusiastic people sometimes do. “We’re glad you’re here. But enough of the formality—sit! Eat! Tell us about yourself! We’d love to hear the uptown gossip, too—how are the Highlanders getting on at Hilltop Park?” 

Katherine passed the next hour or so in pleasant and innocuous chitchat. The price of sugar, the best way to mend a rowdy child’s trousers so they wouldn’t tear the second he got into another scrape, the parish priest’s penchant for fire and brimstone homilies—banal and uninformative, to be sure, but after the morning she’d had, Katherine didn’t mind that she wasn’t getting any juicy gossip. Her head ached from lack of sleep, and although she’d deftly covered up the bruise on her jaw with makeup, makeup did nothing to dull the painful throbbing she felt when she chewed or spoke or laughed. 

The women were just beginning to pack up their scrap bags and mending and embroidery hoops when Angelo Amato himself burst through the door. “Lucia! It’s Christmas in July, _stellina_!” He set a heavy crate down on the kitchen table, as the ladies gathered there hastily snatched their sewing away in order to prevent it from being trapped under the mysterious wooden box. 

“Angelo, _amore_!” Lucia ran to give him a big hug, and the two of them started kissing passionately, right there in the open doorway. Katherine wasn’t exactly shy about her physical affection for Jack, but this took her a little aback. Lucia pulled away first, laughing. “Thank you for coming, ladies. As you see, my dearest has brought me a present; perhaps if you go home you will find gifts waiting for you, too.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “I do hope you all find suitable ways to thank our fine men for all the hard work they do to provide for us.” She turned back to Angelo and hopped into his arms, hitching her legs around his waist and reaching to pull his suspenders from his shoulders. He responded by giving her a peck on the cheek and starting to fumble with her skirts.

Katherine blushed furiously and beat a hasty retreat. She’d sworn to uncover the Five Points Gang’s secrets, but whatever was going on here was not something she needed to see. 

She waved and nodded and said her goodbyes to the other women as they all drifted back to their apartments, the stairwell echoing with the women’s guesses as to what Angelo had brought and what Lucia had been hinting at. Katherine was curious, too, but there was no way for her to find out. At least not when the Amatos were at home. So for now, she was going to take a nap. 

Her hopes for a nap were dashed as soon as she opened her apartment door, though, because Jack had returned, and he looked upset. He was pacing back and forth, muttering under his breath and gesturing wildly to the empty room. He spun around as Katherine entered and raced to pull her into a tight hug. 

“Macushla, I’m so sorry, how are ya, lemme see the bruise…” he pushed her back a step to scan her face and frowned when he saw no evidence of the morning’s events. He blinked a few times, shook his head, and flicked his eyes back and forth from her jaw to her cheek. 

“It’s called makeup, dear heart,” she said, cupping his cheeks in her hands and giving him a kiss. 

“Oh.” 

“Where have you been?”

“Oh, Ace,” he sighed, the air rushing out of him like a popped balloon. 

“Well?”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the doorway. “How’s about a walk? Now that you’s over that head cold, ya oughta get some fresh air. Sun’s shinin’, it’s a beautiful day, let’s go take us a nice stroll.” He gave her hand a squeeze and slipped a notebook off the kitchen counter and into his pocket. “Maybe we c’n even buy us a paper an’ find out what’s been goin’ on in the world this week, yeah?” 

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest. “Sure, love. Some fresh air would do me good.” 

He smiled in relief. “Atta girl.” He dropped her hand to lock the apartment door behind them, and then he gestured for her to go down the stairs first, smacking his gum so loudly that it echoed all across the fourth floor landing. 

“What’s this about?” Katherine said, as soon as they’d made it onto the street and slipped into the city’s morning hustle and bustle. 

Jack rubbed at one of his eyes and fidgeted as they walked along. “That job they needed me for this mornin’—it was smugglin’. An’ I had ta help.” 

Katherine’s eyes grew wide. “Oh!” 

“ ‘Zactly.” He rolled his shoulders and wiped his nose on his hand. “I’m in for it now, Ace. Beatin’ up boys what oughta be able ta defend themselves is one thing, but smugglin’?” He shuddered. “That’s big-time stuff. My Uncle Pat was locked up fer bootleggin’ once, an’ he weren’t never the same once he come out.” He turned to face her, his eyes darting frantically from her to the crowd, paying close attention to who could be overhearing their conversation. “I ain’t no criminal, Ace.”

She reached for his hand and gripped it tightly in front of her own, steering him around the corner in search of a park or a bench or somewhere they could talk and plan. “I know you’re not.” 

“Language, Liddy. You mean ‘I knows you ain’t,’” Jack said absently, still looking around to see if they were being followed.

“Whatever,” she hissed. “We need to write down what you saw and get the information to my father. And we need to figure out how to keep you from being arrested. Did anyone see you?” 

“Not outside o’ the gang, no.”

“Good. Then there’s nothing to tie you to this, so you’re safe for now.” 

“There’s the box,” he said nervously, rubbing his nose. 

“What box?” 

“Angelo gave each of us a box at the end. Said it was a thank you for helpin’ out.” 

“I didn’t see a box in our apartment.” 

Jack rolled his eyes at her. “ ‘Course not. I ain’t dumb, I ain’t bringin’ no smuggled goods inta our place!” 

She smacked him in the arm. “Well bully for you, Mr. Smarty. Where’d you put the box, then?” 

“I gave it ta a newsie.” 

“ _What?_ ”

“I panicked!” 

“But why'd you-- oh, never mind! What was in the box? Did you know the newsie? Did the newsie know you?” 

“I think it was gin. Or maybe cigars. Nothin’ illegal, not untaxed opium or, I dunno, baby crocodiles or somethin’.” 

“Baby _croc_ — have you ever _seen_ anyone importing baby crocodiles?” 

“Yeah, I grew up next door ta a fella who lost a coupla his fingers smugglin’ animals inta the city. Don’t remember if it was crocodiles or tigers what got his fingers, but he only had three on this hand,” Jack said, folding down the ring and pinkie fingers on his left hand and wiggling it at Katherine to demonstrate. 

She gave him an incredulous look and threw up her hands. “How did we even get on this topic? Why are we talking about crocodiles and—and— _tigers_?!” 

“I once knew a newsie named Tiger,” Jack mused. 

“Oh, that's relevant. Did you give _him_ the box?” Katherine asked, her voice oily with sarcasm. 

“What? Oh, uh, no, that were someone I ain’t never seen before. I don’t think he’ll remember me?” 

“Jack—I mean Mack— _ugh_ , whatever—if a random stranger had given you a box of cigars when you were working as a newsie, don’t you think you’d remember what that person looked like?” 

Jack kicked at the sidewalk and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, prob’ly. Too late now, though.” 

“Yeah, too late now.” Katherine sighed. “Well, at least you got some dirt on the gang. That’s more than I have. The women just nattered away about how they think the butcher might be weighting his scales, and did you know Mrs. Fortunata had her baby the other day, and isn’t Paul Kelly so handsome and cultured… nothing useful.” 

“Gotta start somewhere, love.” 

“True.” 

“An’ we know more today than we did yesterday.” 

“Also true.”

They found each other’s hands again and walked three or four blocks in silence.

“I don’t know how to keep you from getting arrested in the future, but I don't think we need to worry about that newsie,” Katherine said calmly. 

“No?”

“Who’s he going to tell, and what’s he going to say? Even if he hands the box over to the police, they'd probably just accuse him of taking it in the first place.” She shrugged. “Besides, you gave him a gift. From what I know of the newsies in Lower Manhattan, they don’t repay good turns with bad ones.” 

“No, they don't. In fact, this newsie repays good turns with good kisses,” Jack said, leaning down to peck her on the cheek. 

Katherine giggled and was about to elbow him in the side when she remembered that he was probably still sore from his fight the other day. So she settled for tugging him to a stop and giving him a big kiss on the lips. 

Jack's whole face lit up, the scar on his chin showing white beneath the bruises on his face. Then he grew solemn again. “Say, Ace?” 

“Yes, love?” 

“I reckon I still gotta keep bein’ part of the gang. Information on one smugglin’ gig ain’t enough ta do any damage ta them Five Pointers.” 

Katherine nodded, her eyes fixed on her feet. “I agree. I hate that you’re the one running the big risks in this, you know.” 

“I know.” 

Jack pulled the notebook out of his pocket and tossed it up and down a few times, trying to decide if he wanted to write his notes up out in the open or back in the apartment. He sighed, and, as if that were a prearranged signal, the two of them turned around to return to their new neighborhood. 

“Jack?”

“Hmm?”

“Keep track of who gets how much for thank you gifts, and if you can, find out what’s in the boxes, too.” She pursed her lips in thought. “Those records could help us prove our story later on.” 

He nodded. 

"We'll win out, you know." She gave him a grin, and Jack saw that the mischievous sparkle he loved so much about her had returned to her eyes and voice. “And," she added, "I’ll sneak into people’s apartments when they’re out to see where they hide those smuggled goods.” 

He laughed. “Guess I need ta show ya how ta pick locks, then.”

"That you do, Mr. Murphy. I don't know how you've managed to stay married to someone so unaccomplished for so long," she answered, tilting her head back to smile at the big, blue sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paul Kelly came from Naples, so for his main gangster men I’m picking surnames that the internet says are common in Naples. I did the same thing with Frank several chapters ago, although I’ve already forgotten what I named him… oh, right, Ferrara. 
> 
> The New York Yankees baseball team moved from Baltimore to NYC in 1903. Back then they played at Hilltop Park and were called the New York Highlanders.
> 
> Stellina is an Italian term of endearment that means ‘little star.’
> 
> 'Smarty' is period-appropriate (1854); wanted to use smarty-pants, but that dates to 1939. :/
> 
> Opium was legal back then, but it was taxed. I have no idea what the wild animal smuggling trade was like in the early 1900s; I was having trouble finding any other goods that were illegal back then for Jack to give as an example, so I decided eh, I'm going to include baby crocodiles and tigers. Because why not.
> 
> Been feeling inadequate and panicky lately and feedback from you darlings pulls me out of that temporarily, so any interaction is much appreciated! Doesn't have to be a comment on my writing, even-- just say hi and tell me the best uninvented ice cream flavor or why you hate the number 7 or gush about the best parts of the Newsies OBC recording with me :D
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which both Jack and Katherine engage in activities of dubious legality. Okay, fine, of illegality. We're talking definitely 100% illegal stuff.

The warehouse was dark and smelled of rotting fish. Jack’s vision swam at the smell, and he had to stagger out onto the docks to throw up.

_He’s tied to a wooden chair, and though he’s managed to topple it over onto its side and smash his shoulder in the process, that hasn’t stopped the big, rough hands from wrenching his head back, and it hurts, and his side hurts, and he wants to scream but he can’t open his mouth because if he does then the hands will get what they want, and he won’t let that happen, he can’t let that happen, no way no how not ever is he going to let them do what they want to him. No. No no no but now the hands are clasped firmly against the side of his face, fleshy fingers digging into the soft spot under his chin and constricting his throat. They smell of onions and sickly-sweet tobacco, and they hurt, and he twists and kicks and tries to bite, but the hands laugh and pinch his nose. And now his throat is tight and his nose is closed and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, dammit he needs air, maybe he can get a quick gulp before they shove anything into his mouth, and he tries, oh, how he tries, but the hands slip a spoon in before he can close his mouth and his mouth is full of maggoty fish, and he’s gagging and bucking but the hands are sandwiching his head and pressing so hard that he can’t move his jaw and he feels something crawl against his cheek and he’s drowning in the stink of decay and the bile is rising and he can’t get out, he can’t get out, dammit, Jack, you got into this by opening your big mouth and now the hands are making sure that big mouth stays shut and the smell of fish washes over him and he tries to scream and_

Jack heaved the rest of his breakfast up into the harbor and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. _That’s over and done with, Jackie boy. Has been for years. And you beat Snyder in the end, so pull it together._ He took a few deep breaths, dug his fingernails into his palms to anchor himself in the here and now, and returned to the warehouse. 

Frank raised an eyebrow. “Ya okay there, Mack?”

“Breakfast didn’t sit right,” Jack shrugged. 

Frank nodded and returned to directing Jack and the other members of today’s smuggling crew from one place to another. This was Jack’s fourth or fifth job, so he had the routine down pat. Boxes were moved from boats to warehouses, warehouses to wagons, wagons to barrooms and cellars and Tammany Hall. Everything ran on a schedule and a pattern, and soon enough he and Katherine would know enough of the patterns to bust this gang wide open. 

Or at least he hoped they would. His survival instincts, honed from years of living hand to mouth and getting by on his wits, were screaming at him to get out, and get out quick. But he couldn’t do that just yet, and so his instincts were torturing him instead, making him twitchy and restless, causing him to have trouble keeping food down and giving him headaches, dragging him back into nightmares of both the waking kind he’d just slipped into and the sleeping kind that had him thrashing under the blankets and yelling loudly enough to wake the neighbors on the nights that Katherine wasn’t able to calm him down in time. He’d had enough, but he couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not until they’d paid these bastards back for what they’d done to his boys. 

Jack shoved one more crate onto the back of a nondescript wagon, one of many that the gang used to pull stolen and smuggled merchandise from one location to another. As he hopped up after it to ride the wagon to the drop-off point, he hoped fervently that Katherine was getting what she needed today, that Lucia and Angelo would stick to their usual schedules and be out of the apartment, that their luck would continue to hold, please hold, because even though he’d never admit it, not even to himself, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand this… 

*** 

Katherine jiggled the lock pick up and down, listening carefully for the clicks that meant the lock’s tumblers were falling into place. Jack was able to do this just on feel, but Katherine still needed the auditory cues. _Was that… yes, that seemed right… okay, now twist… And in!_  

She gave herself a mental pat on the back as she pushed open the door to the Amatos’ apartment. Scanning the room quickly, she allowed herself a brief moment of unreasonable envy for Lucia Amato’s living standards, despite knowing that Katherine’s actual life was much better than this woman’s. Still, Katherine-as-Liddy was jealous that Lucia was always immaculately dressed, that she served meat at every meal, and that, despite living in such a grubby tenement building, her apartment was whitewashed and outfitted with the latest appliances. All of those fancy trappings would convince anyone with even one working eye that the Amatos were involved in shady business, but proving it was another matter altogether. Which was why Katherine was spending her morning sneaking around their apartment, hoping that Lucia didn’t come back early from her grocery shopping and that Angelo would supervise the entire smuggling run the way he usually did. 

“Now if I were a criminal, where would I hide my stolen goods?” She whispered to herself. Wait-- _was_  she a criminal? She’d just broken into and entered someone’s apartment, after all. Did one illegal act turn you into a criminal? It did, right? But Jack had stolen things and she never thought of him as a criminal, and she was doing this snooping in order to _catch_  criminals, so... Hmm. She’d puzzle through that later. For now, she focused her energy on rifling through cabinets, sliding open all of the drawers, and testing floorboards to see if they were covering secret compartments. Nothing.

Katherine’s hands were growing sweaty; if she didn’t find something today, not only would she have to try again (a highly unappealing prospect), but she’d also have to wait a whole week for her next chance, because the only time they could count on Angelo being out of the apartment was during a smuggling run. And she couldn’t afford to wait a week, because even though Jack would never say as much, she knew he was starting to crack. She didn’t need him to speak up in order to notice that his clothes were hanging loosely, that his eyes were ringed by circles that couldn’t be explained away by his training sessions at the Association, that he’d slipped back into twitching at sudden noises and jumping if she touched him unexpectedly. And the nightmares—well, the less said about those, the better. He’d regressed three years in the space of five weeks, and she really didn’t want to see what would happen to him after six. Katherine needed to get Jack out of here as soon as possible, and that would be easier if she had more frequent chances to snoop around the Amato residence. 

But no, the only time Angelo Amato was ever on a schedule was for smuggling runs. The big lug was even unpredictable on Sunday mornings, which Katherine found particularly irritating. Why on earth couldn’t he go to church regularly like the rest of his family and give her a chance to explore the apartment in peace? Unfortunately, Angelo Amato seemed incapable of sitting through a full mass. His wife and kids would sit primly in the pews as he popped in and out like a distractible angel or a choirboy with bladder problems, and it really got Katherine’s goat, particularly since she and Jack had had to go to Catholic services for the last five weeks in order to fit in, and the incense gave her a headache, and the priest mumbled, and… 

Was that a key turning in the lock? 

Katherine stifled a squeak of fear and spun around the room, trying to find a hiding place. _Shoot shoot shoot shoot—OH!_ She registered the window, already open to keep the apartment ventilated during the muggy New York summer, and dove for it without a second thought. She’d just tugged her skirts through the window and down onto the fire escape when the door opened. Katherine crouched as low as she could, hoping her heartbeat wasn’t actually as loud as it sounded in her ears. Please don’t let anyone see her out here… 

As she huddled on the fire escape, she heard whistling and thumping from inside the apartment. Lucia said whistling was vulgar and boxed her children’s ears for doing it, so it must be Angelo. The thumping noise grew louder, and Katherine was sure she’d been made, but instead she heard a swish and a rattle and the footsteps faded again. She looked up to see that Angelo had closed the curtains. That was odd—it wasn’t as if Angelo cared overmuch about privacy, not the way he and his wife carried on in public. Then it hit her. He’d just come back from a smuggling run—he was probably about to hide his share of the loot! 

She inched up to the window and peered over the sill, careful not to let her hands or breath disturb the thin curtain fabric. There was a thin slit between the two curtains where Angelo hadn’t pulled them all the way closed, and although she didn’t have a clear view, it was enough for her to see through. And if she moved quietly, she could scoot around to keep Angelo in sight just about anywhere he went. _This is what you’ve been waiting for, Katherine, now don’t screw this up…_  

She kept her breathing low and even and watched as Angelo pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and dragged it to a corner in the room. Then she saw him brace both hands on the ceiling and push until one of the boards gradually shifted up and over. _Aha!_ Angelo went back to the table, hefted a wooden box in his arms, and, grunting slightly, boosted it up into the ceiling. He groped around in the hidey-hole for another second or two and pulled away with a bottle of alluringly green absinthe in one of his meaty hands. _Well, well, well, looks like I’ve got you now, Angelo_. Katherine could’ve done a jig right there and then, but that would have been royally stupid, so instead she covered her broad smile with both hands and crept slowly down the fire escape. With just a little more luck, she'd soon have Jack out of this mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No notes for this one-- did I even write this fic? Perhaps it's an imposter me posting stuff that has no historical references... :O 
> 
> I'm traveling (for work :( ) this week, so if I disappear, then that's why.
> 
> OH and I'm thinking 3, maybe 4 more chapters to wrap up this fic, so we're on the homestretch here.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Katherine travels uptown and Jack is given a dangerous assignment.

Katherine slammed her notebook closed and tossed her pencil across the kitchen table in triumph. What with the knowledge of Angelo’s hidey hole that she’d gotten today, the information she’d coaxed from the women during their daily sewing sessions about where their husbands and lovers went to lie low when things got too hot in Five Points, and the meticulous logs Jack had been keeping of the smuggling runs’ contents, drop-off points, and participants, she was pretty darn sure they had enough to blackmail Paul Kelly into leaving the newsies alone.

The plan was to run the exposé as a joint effort between _The World_ and _The Sun_. Her editor hadn’t liked the idea, but Katherine had been adamant. She knew none of this would work unless her father was involved, so she’d explained to her editor—lied, sort of—that she was co-authoring with a reporter from _The World_ , so both papers would need to run the story. And if her editor didn’t like that, then Katherine would give her story exclusively to _The World_ , and, well, let’s just say he could take his chances with how things shook out from there. Widening her eyes and batting her lashes at her editor, she added innocently that oh, of course she understood why he didn’t want to run a joint story, quite sensible of him, really, but still, she had to say that she was glad it wouldn’t be her fault if _The Sun_ ’s circulation numbers bottomed out the day Joseph Pulitzer ran an exclusive tell-all on the Five Points gang.

So, as usual, Katherine Pulitzer had gotten what she wanted. And now that she’d finished writing everything up in a story that, in her opinion, was perhaps her finest work yet, all she had left to do was publish it.

Of course, that wasn’t going to be easy—she couldn’t exactly waltz over to _The World_ or _The Sun_ and slap the finished article down on someone’s desk in the way she was fond of doing for big assignments. And as much as she wanted to see the looks on the men’s faces when she turned in yet another article that challenged their notions of what women could do and be, she wasn’t about to risk being seen by anyone even remotely associated with the Five Points Gang as she entered a newspaper building. The minute she was spotted anywhere near a reporter, the gang would think she was a rat—or, even worse, they’d think Jack was.

But, as always, Katherine had a plan. She slipped her notebook into her pocket, locked the apartment door behind her, and clattered down the rickety stairs of the apartment building. She passed one of the neighbors on her way down and gave a cheery wave.

“My, Liddy, but you’re in a hurry!”

“How are you, Anna? I’m on my way to visit an uptown friend—she gets every third Thursday afternoon off, so I’ve gotta run!”

“Have a nice time, dear,” the woman said, returning her attention to the toddler tugging at her arm.

Katherine said her goodbyes and kept on her way to City Hall, where she hopped onto the Broadway and University Place Line. She rode the streetcar all the way to the very last stop, managing to snag a seat about halfway through the ride, and feeling lighter and freer with every block they traveled. It was a pity Jack couldn’t come with her, but this needed to be dealt with as soon as possible, and the Gang’s unofficially mandatory barroom celebration after a smuggling run usually kept him out until dinner. And there was no way she was waiting until dinner to submit this article.

Katherine wanted this story in print tomorrow, both for her own sake and Jack’s, and the clock was ticking on getting things typeset for tomorrow’s edition. She ought to be feeling the pressure, but somehow, leaving Five Points had temporarily relieved her of most of her worries and made this entire foolhardy enterprise seem manageable. By the time the route ended at Central Park, she almost felt like her old self again, and by the time the Columbus Avenue streetcar let her off at 110th street, she was fairly certain that she’d been reborn at some point in the last hour. Oh, how she’d missed green spaces, the sight of fancy dresses, the sound of accents similar to hers… a little bit of familiarity was working wonders on her psyche.

She practically skipped onto the campus of Columbia University, and when she spotted Davey, she didn’t even hesitate to hoist up her skirts, run towards him, and tackle him in a desperate bear hug.

“Boy, am I glad to see _you_!”

Davey staggered backwards under the force of her momentum, windmilling slightly before he stabilized and hugged Katherine back. She was just about a head shorter than he was, so he rested his chin on her nut-brown hair and laughed. “I’m glad to see you, too, Kath.” She was still clutching him tightly, which confused him, so he handled his awkwardness by patting her on the back. “I’ve missed you, but I guess you’ve missed me more, huh?”

“I’ve missed _everything,_ ” Katherine said fervently, finally pulling back from him. “Davey, if I ever say I want to go undercover again, slap me.”

“Well, you didn’t exactly pick the easiest first secret reporting job. You trying to be the next Nellie Bly, or what?”

“No, silly—the first Katherine Plumber.”

“Touché.” They grinned at each other and then Davey motioned for her to follow him. “I brought lunch. Come on, let’s sit and eat and you can catch me up.”

“So how’s life, Mr. College Student? Learning all sorts of exciting stuff?”

Davey’s face took on an expression of bliss. “Oh, Kath, I love it here, I really do. I still have to pinch myself just about every day to be certain it’s real. The professors are brilliant, the students really want to be here, and the library—have you _seen_ their library?” He gave her a wordless gesture of incredulity and rapture. “It’s heaven. And the best part is that the things I’m learning will let me actually help people once I graduate. I get to spend the rest of my life defending workers’ rights, Kath, can you believe it? Someone’s going to pay me to do something I’d do for free? I’m the luckiest man on earth.”

“So I guess my father isn’t so bad after all, huh?” She elbowed him playfully.

Davey chuckled. “If you’d told me four years ago that instead of paying thugs to beat me up, mighty Joe Pulitzer was going to be footing the bill for my education at one of the best universities in the world, I’d have told you to get your head checked.” He steered Katherine to a bench in a quiet part of campus and shook his head in wonder. “Who’da thunk?”

“Life is funny sometimes,” Katherine said, smoothing out her skirts and fiddling with a curl that had escaped from her bun.

“That it is.” Davey slung his satchel off of his chest and unpacked a couple of sandwiches and apples. “So, Miss Plumber, what news do you have for your trusty messenger boy?”

“We’ve got what we need,” she said, pulling out her notebook and flipping to the back pages.

Davey froze in the middle of a mouthful of turkey on rye. “Really?”

Katherine nodded. “See for yourself—I’ve already written it all up, all it needs now is proofing and printing.” She slid the booklet to him across the wooden bench. “You can edit it however you want; I trust you.”

He picked the notebook up reverently and skimmed the pages, his eyes growing progressively larger with each line. “Kath, this—this is _incredible_. Not that I’d expected anything less, but… you and Jack are going to rock the boat with this one, for sure.”

“Good,” she said grimly. “Once you’ve cleaned up the piece, tell my father to run it immediately. Jack’s in bad shape, Davey, and I want him out of there as soon as possible.”

“You got it,” Davey said, slipping Katherine’s notebook into his satchel and rising from the bench. “I’d stay and chat, but it sounds like this needs to be handled now, so I’m going to go catch the trolley downtown. I’ll edit your piece on the way.” He clapped a hand to her shoulder and gave her a determined look. “The two of you hang in there just a few more days, alright? We’ve nearly got them. Not even Paul Kelly is a match for the power of the press.”

“I hope not,” she said, rubbing her temples. “I don’t know what we’ll do if this doesn’t work.”

“It’ll work. Have faith.”

She gave him a weary smile. “Always.”

***

Jack ran his fingers through his hair and exhaled in relief as he left the bar. He’d never been much of a drinker—he’d been much too observant as a child to find alcohol and drunkenness attractive. And although normally his temperance kept him out of trouble, today it was going to do the opposite.

“Mack, hey, I need ya for a minute,” said Frank, weaving down the street after Jack.

Jack slipped his nonchalant, tough guy face back on before turning around to face Frank. “Sure. What can I do for ya?”

“I gots an errand I needs ya ta run. Real important. Paul Kelly’s orders.” Frank hiccupped.

Jack felt his stomach start to clench. “Gee, Frank, I promised Liddy I’d be home for dinner, I, uh, I dunno if I’s the right man for the job, ‘specially not if it’s somethin’ important, I’m still pretty new here an’ all…”

Frank gripped Jack’s shoulder and leaned in until their noses were nearly touching. “No, no, ‘s gotta be you. Was s’posed ta be me, but lookit me,” he laughed, shaking Jack by the shoulders and nearly losing his balance. “I ain’t fit ta put my own shoes on, much less run a job fer the boss.” He tugged Jack back into the now-empty bar and collapsed onto a bar stool. “No, it’s your job now, Mack. Erryone else is too smashed.”

Jack shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the bar. “Okay. What’s the job?”

Instead of answering, Frank got up and stumbled back behind the bar, fumbling at the bottles of liquor. Then, with the sort of serious but exaggerated solemnity only the truly drunk can master, he pulled something out from behind a particularly large bottle of rum and slid it across the counter to Jack.

It was a gun.

Jack kept completely still. He wasn't going to give Frank the pleasure of reacting in a way the man would notice. No way. Bullies hated when they couldn't get a rise out of people, and that was probably the only victory Jack would have in this situation, so he was going to milk it. His body was cooperating with this 'stay calm' plan, but his brain wasn't. And he couldn't blame it. This was terrifying. He was trying to tamp down the fear, of course-- some part of his mind was arguing that surely something so small couldn’t do that much damage, it was a big lie that the gangs put on to make themselves feel tough, there was no way this thing could actually kill a man.... but most of his brain was just flat-out panicking. He had plenty of experience in using ignorance and denial as a means for self-preservation, in fact he was a big fan of both of those things, but they were failing him now. There was a gun on the counter, and he was supposed to pick it up.

“Go on, then,” Frank said. “Ain’t ya never handled a piece before?”

Jack shook his head, still silent, the muscles in his neck corded and his fists bunched tight below the bar where Frank couldn’t see them.

Frank gave him an incredulous look and then brushed this off with a wave of his hand. “No matter—it’s child’s play. Point, aim, shoot. Or aim, point, shoot. I don’t care. Just, ya know, point it at the thing ya wanna hit an’ pull the trigger.” He mimed this with his fingers and smashed a shot glass on the counter, causing Jack to narrow his eyes and raise his shoulders up to his ears. Frank grinned at Jack and pushed the gun a couple inches closer. “Easy peasy.”

Jack slowly raised his gaze up from the pistol to meet Frank’s reddened eyes. “I ain’t shootin’ nobody, Frank.”

Frank laughed. “I don’t think you gets how things work ‘round here, Mack.” He leaned over the counter and began fiddling with the pistol, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the safety. “You’s low man on the totem pole, yeah? So when I say jump, you says ‘how high.’”

“An’ if I don’t?” Jack growled.

A cruel smile spread across the man’s face, made even more feral by the way his lip caught on one of his canine teeth. “Ya might not have a Liddy ta go home ta one of these days,” he said. “Accidents is common in neighborhoods like this.”

Jack felt his blood starting to freeze within him, and he dug his fingernails into his palms to steady himself. “How high, Frank?”

“Atta boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready for all these notes?
> 
> The trolley line and stops existed back then! I hit pay dirt while falling into the rabbit hole of the history of NYC’s public transit routes. (No way for K to have taken a subway, because they didn’t exist yet in that part of the city!) The line I put K on for the first leg of her journey started at City Hall (which is located in Lower East Manhattan, a few blocks south and west of where the streets mentioned in the Newsies musical are) and ended at Central Park. The second line I put her on, the Columbus Avenue Line, ran parallel to Central Park up pretty close to where Columbia University is located. 
> 
> Davey’s referring to female reporter Nellie Bly’s 1887 exposé on the inhumane conditions of the patients in the Women’s Lunatic Asylum on Blackwell’s Island. Bly pretended to be insane in order to get committed to the asylum and published a series of articles in The World on her experiences. These articles sparked such an uproar that the city held a grand jury to investigate the Asylum and completely revamped the place and its admittance process.
> 
> As mentioned (briefly) in an earlier fic in this series, Joseph Pulitzer created a scholarship fund for underprivileged boys who graduated from public schools in New York City and wished to go to college. In her book _Jews in the American Academy_ , Susanne Klingenstein quotes Pulitzer as saying that the scholarships were “to enable poor boys of ability to enter the professions and overcome the handicap of poverty which might otherwise prevent their achieving success.” She also says that “many of the Pulitzer winners were Jewish and chose to go to Columbia.” I wanted to send Davey to Columbia even before I read her quote there, so I was *super* excited to find out that I could without stretching the bounds of plausibility even a little bit! An 1889/90-1900/01 report from the President of Columbia University says that there were 30 Pulitzer scholarships and that the scholarship fund was established in 1893.
> 
> I know nothing about guns. Like, less than nothing. Minus 100 gun knowledge. But from what I understood while reading up (briefly) on the topic, there were thumb-activated safeties on Colt pistols made at this time. And since that was all I needed to know for this fic, that is all I can tell you. For more facts about guns in 1902, please ask Google.
> 
> 'Piece' as slang for 'gun' dates back to the 1850s.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two dangerous men, each ruthless in his own way, face off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I'd planned this to be the lead-in to a fairly long chapter that would then switch perspectives after this snippet, but because it's been a while since I've posted anything (well, it's been a while compared to my usual schedule, anyway), I thought I'd give ya something short to snack on while I get working on the next segment, which I anticipate will be much longer. (So for those of you who have asked/want to know, that'll push the chapter count up to 14, possibly 15.)

Joseph Pulitzer looked over the rims of his glasses at the debonair, dark-haired man who had just entered his office in The World building. 

“Ah, Mr. Kelly. So nice of you to come. Please, sit down.” 

The gangster tipped his fedora and settled into the plush red chair in front of Pulitzer’s desk. “Thank you. To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Pulitzer?” Paul Kelly asked, his manner utterly at ease and his eyes bright and calculating. “It’s not every evening I entertain a request to meet with one of the greatest newspapermen in this city.”

Pulitzer gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, well, _The World_ and _The Sun_ are running a joint exposé that shines a very poor light on some of your top-level associates, Mr. Kelly, and I thought it only fair to alert you to this fact. As a courtesy from one New York businessman to another, you understand.” 

Kelly narrowed his eyes and steepled his fingers. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Pulitzer. I am highly selective about my employees.”

“As am I, Mr. Kelly,” said Pulitzer soothingly. “But I have learned over the course of a long career that when one is in charge of a large enterprise, as both you and I are, it is impossible to ensure that everyone on the payroll is of impeccable quality.” He removed his bifocals and placed them on top of a letter he was writing in his neat law-clerk’s script. “Of course, it is perfectly natural to find small-time crooks among the foot-soldiers of an organization; that hardly reflects poorly on the head of the company. High-ranking employees, though,” Pulitzer continued, shaking his head and making a tsking noise with his tongue, “They are another matter entirely. The quality of one’s high-ranking employees sends a signal about what sort of company a man runs, keeps, and is. And the information my paper is about to print reveals that the quality of all of those things seems to be very low when it comes to you, sir.”

“Is that so?” Paul Kelly raised an eyebrow. “I’ve heard such baseless allegations before, you know. But like I said, I choose my men carefully, and the claims you are making will constitute libel if you do not have sufficient proof.” 

“I have been a journalist for several decades now, Mr. Kelly,” Pulitzer laughed shortly. “I am well aware of how defamation laws work.” He reached into a desk drawer to pull out several typed sheets of paper. “I hold in my hands an expertly-reported article that indicts one of your top men for all sorts of serious crimes.” He waved the sheets at Kelly for emphasis. “The evidence it offers is unassailable; I have checked it over myself. I can assure you, sir, that it will have your fellow in jail within twenty-four hours. The piece is scheduled to run tomorrow morning.” He knocked the papers against his desk and then slid them back into the drawer, which he shut and locked with a small brass key. “However, if you were able to see your way into helping me maintain my business, I might be persuaded to see my way into pulling the article and helping you maintain yours.”

Kelly was stone-faced. “I’m listening.” 

“Lay off the newsboys,” said Pulitzer, his voice deep and his eyes steely. “They are _my_ employees, and by extorting, harassing, and injuring them, you are hurting _my_ profits.” Pulitzer leaned forward and then abruptly slammed his palm onto his desk, very nearly startling Kelly into breaking his ice-cool pose. “No one messes with my profits, Kelly,” Pulitzer growled. “ _No one_.” He settled back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the velvet armrest. “So, if you don’t want me to mess with your profits, you need to stop messing with mine. Immediately. The article runs unless you personally guarantee that the newsboys will be safe from any and all extortion, harassment, and physical harm from here on out. Do we have a deal?”

Kelly arched an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, clearly hoping to rile the famous news magnate with his insouciant air. “I expected more from you, Mr. Pulitzer.” He shook his head in mock lament. “No, we don’t have a deal—I don’t think this is a credible threat. That document is five pages of mumbo jumbo that you typed up to threaten me, not an actual article that you plan to run. And even if it is,” Kelly said, leaning forward and lowering his voice to just above a whisper, “You do know that I have friends in high places, don’t you? I’ve got connections in law enforcement, the court system, even in the uppermost political echelons of our fair city. Do you really think that your article will be enough to persuade them to cross me, the man who engineered their election and who guarantees their professional longevity?” He laughed. “No. So no, Joe, we do not have a deal. I’m going to run my business the way I want, thank you very much, and if it cuts into your profits, then, well," He shrugged apologetically. "That's just business.” He stood and strode to the door, pausing just before he left the room to add, “Stick to what you know, old man. This is the new century; best leave the politicking and muck-raking to the young blood, wouldn’t you say?” He smiled wolfishly and tipped his hat. “Good night, Mr. Pulitzer.” 

Pulitzer waited until the gangster had gone before giving an equally threatening smile and reaching for the phone on his desk. “Hello, Bunsen? Yes, tell them to run the article. That’s right. Yes. Good. Good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pulitzer was in fact a law clerk for a little while (I’m not sure exactly how long, but it was less than 3 years).
> 
> Roosevelt sued _The World_ and _The Indianapolis News_ for libel on very shaky grounds in 1909 (over articles and editorials that the paper had printed about Roosevelt and other American political officials’ *extremely* shady --read: corrupt-- dealings regarding the Panama Canal and the Panamanian Revolution in 1903 and 1904). Roosevelt lost.
> 
> Paul Kelly was apparently very smooth, well-mannered, well-dressed, charismatic, etc. So I gave him no accent (though I've also not been giving my Italian characters accents anyway, aside from the occasional New York street one for characters that I've decided are second generation Americans, because how does one write an Italian accent without being offensive and tone deaf? I am not capable of that, so I'm not messing with it).


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have multiple characters running from one place to another.

Jack stalked down the sidewalk, the pistol weighing heavily against his thigh. He was running his thumb back and forth over the safety, trying to decide if he should just turn around and shoot Frank or if it was best to keep walking and… what? What could he do? What choice did he have in this? If only he’d gone to Santa Fe all those years ago, this wouldn’t have happened to him. No, if he’d gotten out the way he’d planned to then right now he’d be footloose and fancy-free and building the life he’d always wanted—but instead he was stuck. Stuck and scared and just about ready to snap. So he walked another few feet, turned around and walked back, stopped, growled to himself, and retraced his steps in the other direction. Wash, rinse, repeat.

It turned out that Jack was a crack shot with a pistol. As soon as Jack’s fingers had closed around the hilt of the gun, Frank took him down to the basement for some brief target practice. The gangster lined up empty liquor bottles in varying sizes on a table shoved against the opposite wall. The basement was dark, the only light filtering in from the two small grate windows on the streetside wall, just under the ceiling. Jack lifted his chin to look through them, watching the feet of the passers-by, and completely missed every single one of Frank’s instructions.

“Murphy! You hear a word I said?”

Jack jumped and spun around to face the back wall, swinging the pistol into position and sighting his target with a surety and swiftness that drew an admiring nod from Frank. The pistol cracked once, twice, thrice, shattering the bodies of three separate glass bottles and drawing muffled screams from a few young children out on the sidewalk. 

“Enough,” Frank commanded, pushing himself out of his slouched position against the side wall and lowering Jack’s right arm so the gun was pointed at the floor. “Don’t wanna waste the ammo there, kiddo. ‘S clear ya knows what you’re doin’.” He narrowed his eyes at Jack. “Was ya lyin’ ta me up there or what, sayin’ ya’d never handled a piece before?” 

Jack shook his head. “Always had decent aim in baseball ‘n stuff, guess it translates.” 

“Guess it does.” Frank pursed his lips in consideration, but whatever thoughts were running through his head weren’t thoughts he was going to share with Jack. “Okay. We clear on the job you’s doin’ tonight? An’ the consequences fer failin’? I sure would hate for you ta come home an’ see that little Liddy bleedin’ out on the floor…”

“Don’t talk about her!” Jack snapped, swiveling to level the pistol at Frank’s forehead.

Frank raised an eyebrow. “Careful, there, Mack. We don’t want no accidents, do we?”

Jack’s nostrils flared, and he took a long, deep breath before lowering the gun and slipping it into his pocket. Then he rolled his shoulders and looked back up at Frank. “How many bullets I got left?”

“Three. Judgin’ by your display just now, ya don’t need more’n that, but here’s three more, just in case,” Frank said, pulling three small bullets out from his vest pocket. “Lesson’s over now, Mack. Get on with ya.”

Jack didn’t need to be told twice; everything in him ached to get out of this bar, away from this musty basement and this loathsome man and his dirty threats. But once he left, he wasn’t sure where to go. He knew where he was _supposed_ to go, at least according to the Five Points Gang, but he wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to do. Obviously, killing anyone was the wrong thing to do, but what if that was the only way to keep Katherine safe? And it wasn’t like he’d been asked to kill a kid or something—he was supposed to knock off a rival gang member, some poor sap with the unfortunate nickname of Lumpy Sam. Knowing Eastman’s gang, Sam was probably as despicable as Frank. But that didn’t make it okay; who was he to play God? 

Heck, Jack had trouble deciding which shirt to put on in the morning now that he owned more than one. Ordering food at Jacobi’s had become equally difficult now that he could afford most anything on the menu, so he often let Davey choose for him. Having grown up with no options at all, Jack was easily overwhelmed when offered a range of choices—and now he was supposed to decide if a man would live or die? Impossible. Jack sighed. Why’d it have to be a permanent hit? He’d have been perfectly willing to beat someone up in order to maintain his cover—he had no problem soaking a fella when the challenge was offered face to face, because then the other man had time to prepare and Jack could win or lose own his own merits. And, you know, he could make sure not to kill anyone.

But this was a whole nother can of worms, and it had Jack pacing back and forth, muttering and kicking at the pavement in a way that made pedestrians give him a wide berth. Not that he noticed—he was too deep in his thoughts to be aware of anything else. Which is partly why, before long, he found himself back at the apartment Paul Kelly was renting for Jack and Katherine. He gave an internal sigh of relief. Katherine would know what to do. Katherine always had a plan.

“Ace!” He yelled, flinging open the apartment door. But Katherine wasn’t there. His heart flipped. Had they taken her already to force him to behave? Was she locked up somewhere until he did what they wanted and murdered someone? _Get a grip, Kelly. Frank just fobbed the job off onto you, no one even knows that you’re the one with the gun or that he’s threatened Katherine. She’s out meeting Davey, just like she said she was. Things’re fine._ Okay, that was good, but what now? _Breathe, Jacky, breathe. Breathe and think_.

Jack’s eyes flitted around the apartment. Then he gave a sharp nod to himself, whipped his notebook and a pencil out of his back pocket, and bent over the kitchen counter to write.

_~_

_Dear Ace,_

_Names are funny things, aren’t they? So many things I could call you, so many things you could call me… You know my older cousin? The one on my dad’s side. A buddy of his, who, weirdly, has my middle name, got in touch today. Seems he’s a fan of cowboys, knew I wanted to be one when I was a kid, so he gave me the chance to spend tonight, maybe tomorrow, making-believe that I’m in the Wild West—how could I say no to that? With the offer he made me, well, I just have to take the shot. Picture me, a New York City cowboy—think I’ll make the papes? I don’t want that kind of fame, but you never know. My cousin’s buddy said he’d get you in on the action, but I know you’re not a fan of this sort of pretend, so I said no, it’d be just me. Sorry I won’t be here tonight, love. You know I’d do anything for you, don’t you? And that I’m doing my best to be all that you believe I can be? Go stay with your dad. Don’t want my Ace being lonely until I can get back to her._

_I love you always, Macushla. You’re the ace up my sleeve._

_~_

There. She’d figure that out, he was sure. Jack backdated the letter to last week, tore the page out of his notebook, and laid it on the kitchen table without bothering to fold or seal it. He knew that Angelo or someone else –maybe even Frank-- would barge in here the moment that Frank told the rest of the gang that Jack was playing the role of Paul Kelly’s hitman tonight, and if that happened before Katherine got back, then they wouldn’t hesitate to open the letter.

But he’d rather Katherine didn’t return to Five Points at all, so instead of walking straight to the East side of the Bowery, he walked straight to a pay phone. 

“Crutchie? Hey, yeah, it’s your brother. Call your boss and that college kid you know to see if the boss’ daughter is around, and if she is, have her stay put. Hmm? No, ‘m fine, don’t you worry about me. Just the girl. What’s that? Ha. Sure thing, kiddo. Okay. Bye.” 

He hung up, leaning on the phone booth for an instant and pressing a hand to his diaphragm. Once he’d gathered himself and returned to the colorful crowds on the streets and sidewalks, he moved like a general headed into battle. His steps were swift and sure, his jaw set, his green eyes dusky with latent violence and determination. And his right hand was hidden in his pocket, thumb resting gently on the safety of a dark little pistol.

 

***

 

Katherine bounded up the stairs and into the apartment, kicking her filthy shoes off at the front door. “Dear heart, I saw Davina today, she’s having dinner with my father this evening and says she’ll see you in a few days, tops, and—” She stopped and blinked. “Mack?” The apartment was eerily quiet. Jack ought to be cooking dinner or writing up his notes from today or maybe even taking a restless catnap in the corner or—well, the point was that he ought to be _here_ , in the apartment, and he wasn’t. Frowning, she spotted a piece of paper on the table. So Jack had been here, but he’d gone? Or had the landlady left them a complaint? She pulled out a chair and sat to read the letter, her face growing paler with every line. Paul Kelly had told Frank to send Jack out on a hit, and she was the insurance policy.

She’d barely had time to read and process Jack’s words… _I won’t be here tonight, love… I’m doing my best…. go stay with your dad_ … when a knock came at the door. Katherine froze, trying to breathe as quietly as possible.

“Liddy?” Frank’s voice vibrated through the wood. “Liddy, can I come in? It’s me, Frank.”

Katherine stayed completely silent, mind racing.

A different voice called into the apartment. “Liddy, it’s Angelo. Frank and I would like to invite you to dinner. Lucy and the kids are looking forward to seeing you.”

Katherine slid out from her seat and tiptoed towards the window.

“Mack had a job to do tonight, and he asked us to invite you over so you wouldn’t have to eat alone,” Angelo added.

Katherine slid up the window sash and heard the two men whispering and shoving each other behind the door.

“C’mon, Liddy, we know you’s in there. Food’s growing cold. Come on out and have some of Lucy’s famous lasagna, yeah?” Frank wheedled.

Katherine saw the doorknob turn and watched the door start jiggling back and forth as the gangsters began trying to force their way in. She slipped through the open window just as the men dropped the pretense and began ramming their shoulders against the door.

“Lydia Murphy! Get out here right now or there’s gonna be trouble! You don’t want to make an enemy of either of us, you hear? You need us, Mack needs us, you don’t wanna see what Paul Kelly’s like when crossed…” As she fled down the hot metal fire escape, her thoughts a running loop of ‘ _thank you Jack you clever boy thank you Jack thank you_ ,’ she heard the threats turn back to gentle coaxing, but she didn’t stop to decipher the words. Reaching the final platform of the fire escape, she gritted her teeth and, instead of taking the time to pull down the ladder, she jumped down awkwardly onto the hot pavement, wincing at the pebbles and glass that dug into her skin as she landed. _Oof, that hurt_.

She’d been trying to retrain Jack since she’d gotten her own apartment, nagging him about taking his shoes off when he entered the house—it was more sanitary and more comfortable, she argued—but this scenario made an elegant counterargument for Jack’s ‘shoes on’ policy. Oh well. She hoisted up her skirts and fled. Katherine knew she was attracting stares as she flew down the pavement in her bare feet, but she didn’t care. She was getting out, and she was getting out _now_.

 

***

 

Jack crossed over into Monk Eastman’s territory just as the sun was setting. He still wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but whatever it was, it wasn’t going to involve murder. Katherine believed he was a good man, believed he was worthy of love, believed he was good and kind and smart and strong, and he wasn’t going to let her down. No way.

He’d just turned down a particularly dark cross-street—perhaps subconsciously hoping that something like this would happen—when he was buffeted sideways by a sharp blow that landed behind his right ear. He hunched his shoulders and whirled around to see the very man he’d been sent to snuff. 

“This here’s Eastman’s territory,” the bruiser growled. “Five Pointers ain’t welcome.”

Jack laughed. “I wouldn’t be here if I had my say, believe me.” He ducked the man’s next swing and fired off a few solid punches of his own. “But Kelly sent me ta kill ya. Maybe ya heard about that?”

The man grunted in response and moved to headbutt Jack, who danced away.

“I ain’t gonna kill ya, though,” Jack said, blinking at his own words, as if saying them had revealed a way forward, and then breaking into a huge grin. “No, sir. I ain’t gonna do it. An’ ya wanna know why?” He shook his head in astonishment. “‘Cause I got things I gotta get back to. Things ta live for. Ya know what that’s like?” He asked, grabbing the man’s left wrist and twisting until he heard a snap. The man howled in pain, and Jack’s smile grew even wider. “It’s the best feelin’ there is.” 

Eastman’s thug lunged to tackle Jack around the waist, broken wrist notwithstanding, but Jack sidestepped and reached into his pocket. “Lookit this, will ya? I gots a gun I’m s’posed ta shoot ya with. Spare bullets ‘n everything.” Jack smacked his chewing gum and looked at the pistol, turning it this way and that to reflect the gleam from a nearby streetlight. “But I ain’t gonna. ‘Cause I don’t wanna.” He winked and pointed the gun straight at the other man, who froze as he heard the click of the safety being slid off. “I ain’t a criminal, ya see. An’ besides, I got a whole passel of true blue brothers an’ a beautiful girl ta get back to. An’ this,” He said, deftly emptying all three bullets from the chamber, “This here gun ain’t gonna keep me from gettin’ back ta them. An’ neither is you.” Jack tossed the gun one way and the bullets another and ran off, back to the streets he’d grown up on. Back to Five Points.

 

***

 

Katherine hammered on the door of the Pulitzer mansion, which Joseph Pulitzer had just finished having built to his own exacting standards. He’d nearly driven the architect crazy with his specifications, and by the end of the project, neither client nor contractor ever wanted to see each other again. Not in this world, and not in the next. Katherine wasn’t sure it had been worth all of the hassle, but the building did have a stylish façade. “Open up, Wilson, goshdarnit, it’s _me_ , it’s Katherine!”

The door swung slowly inwards as Wilson the butler peered around the mahogany wood to see who was at the door. His jaw dropped as he took in Katherine’s dirty clothes, sweaty face, and filthy feet— _bare_ feet, no less. What on earth… 

“… Miss Katherine?”

“Yes, Wilson, it’s me. I don’t think anyone else is going to appear at the front door looking like this and yelling that they’re Katherine, do you?”

“No, Miss.” Wilson bowed and held his pose until Katherine had entered the house and run up the stairs to her father’s rooms at the center of the house.

“Father!” She threw open the door to his study and ran behind her father’s desk, flinging her arms around the startled old man. “Oh, Father, I’m so happy to see you. You’ve got to print both the articles tonight, not just the one. They’re after us. Well, they’re after me, really, but it’s because they’ve told Jack to kill someone, and he won’t, I know he won’t, and—” 

“Slow down, Katherine,” Joseph Pulitzer said, gently patting his daughter’s back and easing her off of him. “Take a seat and tell me everything in order of importance. I’ll make sure you and Jack are both fine, so take a deep breath.” 

Katherine retreated to the other side of the desk and flopped into an armchair at the side of the room. Once she’d explained the day’s events to her father, producing Jack’s letter in the process, she finished by saying, “…so you see, you have to print both of the articles tonight. Otherwise… well, Jack and I will have to hightail it out of New York. We could go West, I suppose.”

“Hmm,” her father said, drumming his fingers on his desk. “ _The Sun_ has already gone to print, but if I call Bunsen now, I believe I can get him to swap the current article out for the one that was supposed to run in _The World_ tomorrow.”

“Oh, do it, please,” Katherine pleaded. Even before the words left her mouth, her father had picked up the receiver to place his call. She sank back into the chair and wiped the sweat from her forehead as she listened to him calmly giving the instructions that would—hopefully—save both her and Jack from the wrath of the Five Points Gang. She studied the owlish set to his eyes, a result of his impending blindness, and smiled to see that, even dimmed, they were just as canny as ever. Katherine didn’t always like her father, but she did always love him, and she knew that, as angry as she made him sometimes, he always loved her. 

And that gave her the security to try things like this, to pursue the big stories, to chase the dream of her own life and career. Because despite all his bluster and rage, she knew he wanted what was best for her, and he would support her when she needed him to, now that she’d proved herself capable and competent. And ever since she’d moved out, which allowed her to experience or ignore his temper and his demands at a remove, she’d been able to appreciate his grit and passion more fully. Being able to escape and avoid her father had worked wonders for her relationship with him, and although some part of her grieved that they would never have the easy, affectionate parent-child dynamic that Davey had with Reuven Jacobs, most of her was simply grateful that they’d found an equilibrium that worked for both of them. An equilibrium that she could count on in situations like this.

“There. Done,” Pulitzer said, returning the earpiece to its hook.

“Thank you,” Katherine said, closing her eyes in relief. Now all she needed was for Jack to make it through the night, and they could both go home. _Please, Jack. Don’t do anything stupid. Come back to me._

***

 

Davey always said that Jack wasn’t the best at not doing stupid things, and Katherine tended to agree. They’d probably tell him he was being stupid now, he thought, running through the streets of Monk Eastman’s territory with an enraged gangster hot on his heels. It wasn’t his fault that he hadn’t been given enough time to come up with a good plan, though. It was hard, escaping gangs and figuring out how not to kill people and keeping criminals from shooting you and your girlfriend. _Heavy stuff_ , he thought to himself, half in humor and half in panic. He hadn’t been in a footrace like this in a while… 

Jack skidded around a corner, arms flailing as he adjusted his momentum and tried to keep his balance.

“Psst, hey, Mister,” a small voice came from the low rooftop of a shop to his right. Jack jerked his head upwards. “Up here.”

Jack turned to see if his pursuer had rounded the corner yet and, finding that the coast was still clear, he looked back up at the kid. “Thanks for the invite, kiddo, but how’m I s’posed ta get up there?” 

“With this,” the boy said, tossing down a rope with thick knots tied at intervals along its length.

Jack’s eyes widened and he smacked his bubblegum in admiration. “Not bad, kid.” He grasped the rope and tugged at it skeptically, gauging its tautness against the boy’s skinny arms. Then he shrugged. “No offense, but I don’t think ya can support my weight as I climb, so I better clear out. Thanks anyway.” 

The boy rolled his eyes. “I ain’t dumb, ya know. I tied it ta the pipes up here. It’ll hold.” He cast a glance over the other side of the building, to the sidewalk Jack had just come from. “Ya better hurry, though, Lumpy Sam is gainin’ on ya.”

“I still thinks that’s a dumb name,” Jack muttered, gripping the rope and shimmying upwards, talking all the while. “Ain’t no glory in bestin’ a man named Lumpy Sam. Makes a terrible story. I’d have a better name if I was a gangster. Heck, I had a better name when I was a newsie.”

“You was a newsie?” The boy gaped, grasping Jack’s hand and helping him over the ledge of the roof.

“Sure was,” Jack said, reaching to doff his newsie cap and letting his hand fall to his side with a grimace as he was reminded, yet again, that Mack Murphy didn’t wear a hat. “An’ a damn good one, too.”

“ _I’m_ a newsie,” the kid said, still awestruck. “Newsies c’n grow up ta be gangsters?”

“I ain’t no gangster!” Jack said, affronted. “I’s an undercover reporter. I works for _The World_.”

“Hey, I works for _The Sun_!”

Jack grinned and shook the boy’s hand. “Always a pleasure ta meet a fellow newspaperman. An’ I knows a pretty smart girl what works for _The Sun_. It’s a good paper. Ya c’n be proud you’s a part of their organization.”

The boy beamed and then tugged Jack’s arm to signal him to crouch down below the ledge; Eastman’s flunky had rounded the corner and started to splutter and look around when he realized that Jack was nowhere in sight. 

“Thanks for the rescue, kid,” Jack whispered, ruffling the boy’s hair as the man below them wandered off. “I owes ya one.” 

“Nah, we’s quits,” the boy said, scratching at his neck and across his middle.

 _Lice and fleas_ , Jack thought. He remembered that all too well. “How d’ya figure?”

“Ya gave me some cigars a few weeks back. A whole box of ‘em. They was _Coronas_ ,” he said reverently. “Ya know how much them things is worth? I’s been eatin’ like a king ever since. _An_ ’ sleepin’ in a real bed ‘steada on the streets. Most nights, anyway.”

“That was you? Well, gee, kid, sorry I didn’t recognize ya!” Jack said, momentarily taken aback. “Glad ya got some good use outta the cigars.”

The boy nodded and smiled, still scratching.

They sat in silence for a minute, the kid obviously too pleased with himself to break the moment and Jack too busy contemplating his next move to make more small talk. Then Jack gave a nod and rubbed at his nose. “Say, kiddo,” he ventured. “How’d ya like a job what keeps ya offa the streets? An office job? No rain or snow in the office, an’ ya could afford a better bunk with the pay—lose the fleas an’ lice, ya know?”

Now it was the boy’s turn to be flabbergasted. “What? You’s offerin’ me a job on account of how I threw yous a rope?”

“On account of how you saved my _life_ ,” Jack said solemnly. “I may not be the Grand Poobah of Kalamazoo, but my life means somethin’ ta me, at least.” He thought for a minute and bit his lip to hold back a big smile. “An’ ta a lot of other people, too, actually.” Realizing that he really, truly believed what he’d said, he chuckled to himself, his face lighting up like a summer sun. “I gots some swell friends, an’ I’d like ta let ‘em thank ya in person, if you’s alright with that.”

The boy blinked, utterly speechless.

Jack socked the kid gently in the arm. “So, whadya say? How’d ya like ta switch papers an’ be a messenger boy f’r _The World_?” 

The boy nodded so vigorously that Jack was afraid his head would fly off. “Steady there, kiddo, ya don’t want ta hurt yourself!” He clapped a hand on the kid’s shoulder and gave him a wink. “I know ya said ya’s been rentin’ a bunk, but how’s about we kip here f’r the night? I’s got a plan for gettin’ us outta here an inta clean lodgings with a hot shower an’ a hotter breakfast t’morrow mornin’, but I’m gonna need your help ta do it.”

The boy’s eyes were still wide at the possibility of an indoor job, and the prospect of a shower and a hot breakfast was almost too much for him. “Me?” He squeaked. “Are ya sure?”

“Sure’s the Lord made little green apples,” Jack said. “I needs ta get my hands on a coupla papes tomorrow ta check the coast is clear, an’ who better ta get me some papes than a newsie?” He laid down on the rooftop and pillowed his head on his arms. “So, do we got ourselves a deal, or what?”

The boy smiled so wide that Jack saw two dimples fight their way out from under the grit and grime that accumulated during life the street. “We sure do,” he said, spitting in his hand and offering it to Jack to shake. Jack lifted his head to free an arm in order to return the gesture, and then he and his little rescuer settled in for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Joseph Pulitzer Mansion, No. 11 East 73rd Street, finished being built in 1903. At this point, Pulitzer was very nearly blind and extremely sensitive to noise, so his rooms were soundproofed and located at the center of the mansion so as to be as insulated as possible from street noise. Pulitzer was so unreasonably demanding throughout the project that the architect, Stanford White, accused Pulitzer of trying to drive White insane. 
> 
> Monk Eastman controlled the territory east of the Bowery over to the Brooklyn Bridge. His gang was the archrival of the Five Points Gang.
> 
> “As sure as God made little apples” dates to at least 1874; can’t find stuff for the version of the phrase I’m more familiar with, which is the one in the text, but go with it. If it didn’t exist at this point in time, then maybe Jack invented it. ;) 
> 
> Well, kiddos, I promised you a long chapter, and boy did I make good on that promise, huh? 
> 
> Preeeeeetty sure there's just one more chapter to go! I hope you're liking this as it draws to a close, and THANK YOU to all of you lovelies for reading (and particular thanks to the kudoers, and even more particular thanks to the commenters-- seriously, you guys are why I update so regularly and why I've written anything for Newsies past Sunday Morning).


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which plans are put in motion and loose ends are tied up.

Jack awoke before the little newsie did, his heart pounding and his throat hoarse. Panicked and disoriented, he jerked upright and looked around to get his bearings. He didn’t recognize the rooftop, but the previous night’s events clicked back into place when he spotted the child sleeping a few feet away from him. The fight, the chase, the plan… Jack sighed in momentary relief. He was safe, at least for now, and he hoped against hope that Katherine was, too. If she hadn’t gotten out, then…

 _Steady on, Jack_.

Then he’d tear the city down to find her. He’d done it before, and he could do it again. He _would_ do it again. There wasn’t a thing in this world or the next that would keep the two of them apart. No power of hell, no scheme of man. No way. Jack took a deep breath and realized that he’d been clenching his jaw so tightly that it hurt. He rose to his feet, wiped the sweat from his face, and stared out over the city. Damn it, he needed out. Every time he thought he’d beaten these stinking streets, they rose up and began tearing the flesh from his bones, and he’d had it, he’d had it, _he’d had it_. Crouching like a wounded animal, he covered his face in his hands and screamed out his frustration, giving vent to weeks of tension and posturing and fear.

A small squeak from behind him reminded him that he wasn’t alone on the rooftop. He turned slowly to check on the boy, feeling guilty for his outburst. But the child’s eyes were still closed, his dishwater-blonde hair matted to his forehead in the summer heat. Caught in his dreams, the little newsie made another soft noise and shifted his weight so that his skinny legs were slightly counterbalanced and one arm was flung over his head. Jack tilted his head thoughtfully and decided that if you overlooked the boy’s grit and grime and lice, he could rival the Greek sculptures at the Met. Classical figure drawing, turn-of-the-century style. If only Jack had his charcoals…

Ah, well. Another time, perhaps. Jack ran through a series of stretches to soothe his aching muscles and managed a faint smile at seeing the boy resting peacefully. He was grateful that his yell and his nightmares—vocal nightmares, judging by the rawness of his throat—hadn’t kept the boy from his much-needed sleep. Of course, a hard day’s work and years of sleeping on the streets inured you to loud noises, even frightening ones—he knew that from experience.

Squinting at the burgeoning sunrise, Jack could tell that the papers weren’t out yet. So even though he itched to know what _The Sun_ and _The World_ had to say about the Five Points Gang today, he’d have to wait a little longer. It was all he could do not to shake the little newsie awake and send him out to the circulation office anyway, but the only thing that would accomplish was ensure that neither of them was well rested. And after the excitement of last night, at least one of them deserved some decent shuteye.

Jack gave a mental shrug. He could wait another hour to see the headlines. After all, he’d already waited over a month for this day to come—as soon as he and Katherine had entered Paul Kelly’s world, Jack had been desperate to escape it. Maybe today he would. Maybe tonight would find Jack sleeping in the room he shared with Crutchie rather than on a filthy concrete roof. Maybe tonight would find Jack eating dinner at Jacobi’s, regaling his newsboys with stories of newspaper office antics, instead of lounging in a barroom, swapping boxing tips with criminals. And maybe, just maybe, tonight would find Jack standing in a quiet room, somewhere safe and private, facing Katherine, and… _No, no, leave that for later. Don’t let your brain get ahead of you, Kelly. You’ve got to see the papers first._

***

 

“You ready, Kath?”

Katherine, still in her Lydia Murphy attire, gave a firm nod to Davey, who was clad all in blue, the brass buttons on his uniform gleaming in the breaking dawn.

He nodded back and clapped her on the shoulder. “You’ve got the heart of a lion, Katherine Pulitzer. I’m proud to be your friend.”

She reached up to her shoulder and laid her hand on top of his. “Same to you, Davey,” she said, her voice a little weaker than she wanted. They needed to get this show on the road—her nerves were fraying fast. Did they really have to do this? Maybe they could— _No, Katherine. This is the plan. Stick to the plan. The neighborhood has to see what happened to you, they have to know you’re gone for good, you’ve got to put the fear of God—or at least of Joseph Pulitzer—into every last one of those Five Points thugs._

As she gathered her courage, Davey was running through the plan once more with Tommy Boy, Sniper, and Finch, who had circled up behind him in the seedy alleyway they’d chosen as their rendezvous point. “...There’s an unavoidable element of unpredictability in all of this,” Davey said, shrugging slightly, “But if we stand our ground, I see no reason why it won’t work. We look pretty convincing.” The boys nodded solemnly, adjusting the cuffs of their uniforms and straightening their helmets. Davey gave them all a final onceover and gave an exasperated huff when he got to Finch. “What on earth do you think you’re doing with that slingshot?”

“ ‘S my weapon of choice, Davey-boy!” Finch said indignantly. “I ain’t goin’ inta this unarmed.”

“You’re not unarmed!”

“That’s what I just said. Glad we agree,” said Finch.

“No, I mean, even _without_ the slingshot you’re not unarmed! Why do you think we went to all the trouble of finding billy clubs?”

Finch shrugged. “ ‘Cause the rest of youse has terrible aim an’ is only good at smackin’ stuff what’s right in front of ya?”

Tommy Boy snorted and shoved Finch sideways. “That’s rich comin’ from you, Finchy. Ya wanna tell Davey how Sniper an’ I whupped your butt in the shootin’ games last time we went out ta Coney Island?”

Finch scowled, but he did pull his slingshot out of his back pocket and hide it inside his slightly baggy coat.

“So, Davey, is we doin’ this or nah?” Sniper asked, fiddling with the truncheon clipped to his belt.

Davey turned to Katherine. “Good time for us to make our entrance, Kath?”

She nodded. “Good enough, anyway.” She tamped down her nerves and gave the boys a wink. “Cover your ears, buckos, I’ve got a good set of lungs on me.” Only Davey listened, but the other three immediately wished they had, because Katherine let out a high-pitched screech that made their teeth rattle.

She took another deep breath and continued screaming. “Get your filthy hands offa me! You pigs, whad’ya think you’re doin’, Paul Kelly’s gonna have your hide for this, I’s an innocent woman, I ain’t mixed up in no smugglin’, I don’t care what no newspaper said, get off, get off!”

Finch grabbed Katherine’s right arm, Tommy Boy took her left, and they marched her out into the street, kicking and thrashing and drawing plenty of attention from everyone on the block. Not everyone in Five Points was in the gang—far from it, in fact—but everyone knew who belonged to Paul Kelly, and so Katherine’s arrest was quickly drawing a crowd.

“Shaddap!” Sniper yelled, slapping Katherine’s face with a gloved hand. They’d padded the glove with cotton expressly for this purpose, but it still left a convincing red mark on her cheek. The crowd swelled even further and began to press closer and closer around Katherine and the newsboys, all of whom were clad in borrowed police uniforms acquired for them by Joseph Pulitzer, whose calls to the police had been aided by a liberal amount of Crutchie’s best sweet-talking.

“You shaddap!” Katherine shrieked back. “I’s a respectable citizen, I ain’t done none of that stuff ya say I done, not here, not in South Carolina, not a bit of it! You bulls is makin’ a mistake, me an’ my husband is innocent!” The crowd started murmuring and jostling each other, the undercurrent transitioning from shock to anger at what was happening to Katherine.

Sensing this shift, Davey, who’d circled around to the front to part the crowds and serve as the stern face of the operation, turned around and got in Katherine’s face, his billy club shoved menacingly under her chin, his free hand gripping her shoulder. “Don’t you lie to us now, Mrs. Murphy. We found the goods in your apartment, an we’s got a perfect likeness of you on a warrant from down south. You ain’t gonna be robbin’ or killin’ no more honest folks from here on out, not you or your husband, neither.” He pushed her head up with the butt of the club and gave her a nasty grin. “In fact, the shape your husband’s in, he’ll be lucky ta do much of anything from here on out.”

This gave the crowd pause. No one had seen Mack Murphy’s arrest, but apparently he was in the clink. And this meant that there was some truth to what the bulls were saying—they wouldn’t mess with Paul Kelly’s men unless they were sure they could get the arrest to stick. The whispers started flying back and forth. Liddy and Mack had seemed normal, but the police must have evidence to the contrary, because the only way to overcome the mountains of bribe money that Kelly paid the police was to have a mountain of evidence backed up by some awfully powerful men. And what was that the bull had said about _killing_ someone? Smuggling, sure, everyone around here could use a little more food and a little more money, but _murder_?

Katherine struggled even harder as Finch and Tommy Boy resumed dragging her down the street. “You’s got Mack? Whad’ya do ta him, ya lousy creeps? Whad’ya _do?_ ”

“Nothin’ a robber an’ killer don’t deserve,” Sniper called from behind Katherine. “South Carolina wants ya back, so we’s shippin ya there soon’s we can. By which I means today, ya nasty piece of work. You two is gonna serve your time down south, somewhere’s you can’t hurt no honest New Yorkers.” He poked his billy club into her back. “We don’t tolerate no murderers around here, no sir.” The crowd sucked in its collective breath. _There it was again. Murder_.

Katherine sagged and began to keen. “It were an accident, we didn’t mean ta kill him, I swears…” At this, the crowd turned entirely against Katherine and began to disperse. A lady murderer was a menace to society, and no matter how nice she’d been since she moved here, she and her husband were clearly degenerates who deserved what they had coming to them. And whatever they had coming to them was down south. Far away from here.  
  
***  


“Mr. Kelly to see you, Sir,” Bunsen said, bowing slightly as he ushered the gangster into Joseph Pulitzer’s workplace office.

“Thank you, Bunsen,” said Pulitzer, adjusting the spectacles on the bridge of his nose and leaning back in his high-backed chair. “Please sit, Mr. Kelly,” he added, gesturing graciously to the chair opposite his desk. “To what do I owe your visit?”

“I am not here to play games, Mr. Pulitzer,” Paul Kelly growled. “We both know I’m here because of the articles that ran this morning in the papers owned by you and your… _compatriot_.” He practically spat the words at Pulitzer, too furious to say the name ‘William Randolph Hearst.’

“Good journalism, don’t you think?” Pulitzer asked, twirling a pen lazily in his left hand.

Kelly sat, stone-faced, refusing to answer.

Pulitzer shrugged. “Well, the police certainly thought so. I hear they made a few visits to some prominent Five Points citizens this morning.”

“To my _right-hand man_ , you mean,” Kelly snapped. “Angelo Amato for a pack of newsboys? That’s going too far.”

Pulitzer raised an eyebrow. “I gave you a chance to end this cleanly and quietly, and you refused. I’d say you got off easy, losing only your right-hand man and a couple of lower-level flunkies.” He made a noncommittal gesture meant to indicate how generous he’d been to Kelly. “You might even see Amato again, once he serves his time. Murphy’s a write-off, though—seems he and his wife are wanted for some genuinely serious crimes down South. They’re gone for good.” He paused and gave Kelly a considering look. “Most people who tangle with me lose far more, you know.”

Kelly ground his teeth. “What do you want?”

“The same thing I wanted yesterday, Mr. Kelly. Leave the newsboys alone. And I don’t care what paper they’re selling—they’re all under my protection. Every last one of them.” Pulitzer laid his fountain pen on his desk, and his rheumy eyes hardened. “Let me be clear. If you cross me again, you will see just how easy it is for an experienced newspaperman to bring down a shabby little huckster like you. Do you understand?”

Kelly sat perfectly still; the only tell as to his emotional state was an involuntary eyelid twitch. “Yes. The newsboys are off-limits.” He narrowed his eyes and pushed back. “And what do I get in return?”

Pulitzer laughed for a good while at that. “I didn’t realize you had such a sense of humor, Mr. Kelly.” He pulled out a handkerchief to dab tears from his eyes—Kelly couldn’t tell if Pulitzer was putting on a show or not, but the insult was clear—and said, “In return, you get to keep running your miserable little gang. It’s more than you deserve. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a news empire to run.”

Kelly rose and plucked his fedora from the hat stand in the corner of Pulitzer’s office. “Good day to you, Mr. Pulitzer,” he said through gritted teeth. Pulitzer gave a mocking wave and chuckled to himself as the ruthless mobster stalked from the room, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway. Paul Kelly was obviously not a man who was used to losing.

But neither was Joseph Pulitzer.

Once Kelly had left, Pulitzer dabbed his handkerchief across his forehead and let out a deep breath. “Another victory for bluff and bluster,” he said with the trace of a smile. He allowed himself a minute to be grateful that Kelly hadn’t realized Joseph Pulitzer didn’t have enough documentation to nail anyone else in the gang, but once that minute was up, his attention shifted to other things. “Bunsen!” He yelled. “Get in here—I need the latest figures on the Fort George Subway Tunnel.”

 

***

 

Jack was bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet as he waited for his new acquaintance to return with the morning editions of _The World_ and _The Sun_. As soon as the boy rounded the corner and turned into the alley where Jack was hiding, Jack bounded forward and eagerly grabbed the proffered papers. He snapped them open to the front page with a quick shake and began reading, his eyes flicking back and forth like the slide on Katherine’s typewriter. It didn’t take him long to start humming and nodding in pleasure as he read—his 3 R’s had improved dramatically over the course of four years of friendship with Davey and Katherine, and he was now nearly as quick a reader as those two bookworms. _Intrepid reporter… Arrests made… Cormac and Lydia Murphy… Smuggling and murder… Extradited to South Carolina…_ Jack whooped.

The little newsie was clearly bursting with impatience to ask Jack was he so excited about, but the boy kept his questions to himself, opting instead to get his answers from Jack’s body language and widening smile. Jack switched to the second paper, rapidly skimmed the front page, spotted the words ‘Angelo Amato’ and ‘in custody’ and then smacked the broadside with a crow of glee.

“We done it, kiddo!” Jack dropped both papers and smothered the newsie in a bear hug, lifting the waiflike boy completely off of his feet and whirling him around until both of them were dizzy and aching from laughter.

The boy staggered and fell over onto the pavement when Jack finally set him down, causing both of them to break out into a fresh set of giggles. Jack plopped down next to the kid and whipped the boy’s cap off to muss his dirty hair. “We done it,” he whispered again. “I can’t believe it, kid. We done it… My boys is safe an’ I gets ta go home.” Jack blinked a few times as he processed his own words, and then he began to cry. “I gets ta go home,” he repeated into his hands, his shoulders shaking with dry sobs.

The little boy furrowed his brow and punched Jack in the arm. “Hey now, hey, ‘s okay, Mister Reporter. Goin’ home’s a good thing, right? An’ so is bein’ safe. They’s both good things. So don’t cry, okay?”

Jack nodded into his hands and then rubbed brusquely at his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, ‘s okay.” He straightened and jostled the kid sideways. “Sorry ‘bout that, kiddo, ‘s been a long… well, I don’t even know how long it’s been since I was this happy. Just hit me all at once, I guess.” He took a deep breath and smiled at his companion. “But we done it!” He stood up and pulled the newsie to his feet. “So let’s see about gettin’ you that office job, yeah?”

The boy nodded vigorously, his too-big clothes flapping with the movement.

“Alrighty, then. Let’s go find Mr. Pulitzer.” Jack strode off down the alleyway, leaving the boy standing stunned in the alley behind him.

“Mr. Pulitzer? Like… _the_ Mr. Pulitzer?” The boy squeaked.

Jack turned. “Yup. He’s a personal… Uh, well, he’s a business partner o’ mine. Of sorts.” He walked back to the newsie and stuck out his hand to shake. “Name’s Jack, by the way. Jack Kelly.”

The boy’s jaw dropped. “ _The_ Jack Kelly?”

Jack laughed. “I’s the only Jack Kelly I know, so yeah, I guess so.”

“Wow.” The kid’s eyes were practically popping out of his head. It took Jack wiggling his still-extended hand at the boy to snap him back to reality. He blushed, grabbed Jack’s hand, and shook it enthusiastically. “M’name’s Samuel,” he said breathlessly, “But ev’ryone calls me Bug.”

“Bug, eh? Short ‘n sweet. I likes that.” Jack grinned. “Nice ta meet ya, Bug. Whatcha say we gets us a decent breakfast an’ then heads over to meet tha big man?”

“Geez, Jack,” the boy breathed in awe. “That sounds… yes please!”

Jack chuckled and slapped the kid on the back. “Let’s go, then.”

 

***

 

After confirming Paul Kelly’s capitulation with Joseph Pulitzer and getting Bug a hearty breakfast, a set of clean clothes, and a new job, Jack left his little friend in the capable hands of Mr. Finnegan, who was in charge of the messenger boys.

“Take extra good care of this one, Finny,” Jack said. “He’s a pal of mine.”

The boy beamed, and Finnegan nodded. “Sure thing, Kelly. I can tell he’s a bright one. He’ll pick up the ropes quick.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Jack, giving the boy a reassuring smile. “Okay now, Bug, I got some other business to take care of today, so I hafta scoot. But you stick with Mr. Finnegan here, an’ I’ll check in on ya tomorrow when I’m officially back in the office. An’ don’t forget, you can come find me in the illustrators’ office anytime you need me. If ya want help finding new lodgings, figurin’ out the language in your contract, someone ta eat lunch with, anything at all, you just ask me or Finny, yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Bug, who already looked much more respectable than he had this morning, as he was dressed in new clothes and had been subjected to some vigorous face scrubbing and de-lousing efforts, courtesy of Jack.

“Good. See ya tomorrow, then, Finny, Bug,” he said, nodding goodbye to them both and then heading for the elevator bay.

Once he’d left The World Building, Jack abandoned any attempt at propriety and flew across City Hall Park. When the sidewalks were too crowded to allow him to run, he dodged into the street, laughing at anyone who yelled insults at him or honked their horns as he weaved between cars. Nothing was going to bring him down today—he felt brilliant, brighter than the sun, capable of anything. Eventually, he burst through the front doors of the lodging house, dripping in sweat and panting like an overworked carriage horse.

“Racer! Specs! Albert! We done it, everybody! We beat Paul Kelly!” Immediately, a pack of boys flooded down the stairs, out of the kitchen, in from the communal front room, and swarmed around Jack. For several minutes the entire entry hall was crammed with every newsie in the place, all whooping and jumping and cheering and hugging in boisterous joy.

When Race had finally managed to push his way through to Jack, he leaped into his friend’s arms, locking his gangly legs around Jack’s waist and giving him a huge hug. Jack staggered backwards at the unexpected greeting but gripped Race just as tightly, grinning over his friend’s shoulder. “We did it, Racer. C’n you believe it?”

Race thumped Jack’s back heartily and then dropped back onto the ground. “You’s a miracle worker, Jacky-boy, an’ I’m about 100% sure that Kath’s an angel.”

Jack laughed. “I’m 100% sure about Kath, too. She’s a wonder. She an’ the boys back yet?”

“Sniper’s here—he says they all went ta hers ta change an’ shower after the arrest. Guess he got first go, ‘cause he’s the only one what’s turned up so far.”

“A shower sounds awfully good,” Jack said wistfully. “So does a change o’ clothes.”

“Well get outta here, then!”

“Nah, I needs ta see the boys an’ check on Elmer an’—”

“ _Jack_.” Race said, giving him his classic ‘are you stupid or what’ look. “You’s just spent more’n a month pretendin’ you’s someone else, knowin’ you an’ Kath could get found out an’ shot at any minute, worryin’ about us, tryin’ ta gather information on gangsters without becomin’ one yourself—you needs a hot shower an’ a good night’s sleep. So go. We’ll be here when you’s had time ta catch your breath.”

“But—”

“I _means_ it, Jacky-boy. Elmer’s fine, you c’n say hi ta him later. An’ yeah, some time with your friends will do ya good, an we all wants ta see ya, but it ain’t gotta be today. If ya ask me, right now ya needs ta take care of yourself—you look like hell.”

“Gee, thanks,” Jack grumbled.

Race shrugged. “Well, ya do. Ain’t seen ya so pale an’ skinny since… well, it’s been years. So go on, clear out, get some sleep. We ain’t goin’ nowheres, an’ we’s all safe an’ sound.” Race gave Jack another look and then hugged him tightly. “An’ that’s thanks ta you an’ Kath, Jacky-boy. An’ I can’t… I just…” His voice caught and shifted into a whisper. “ _Thank you_ , Jack.”

“O’ course,” Jack said, his voice low. “We’s a family, Racetrack.” The two boys clung to each other a moment longer before Race let go and started herding Jack to the door.

“Say g’bye ta Jack, boys!” Race yelled over the din in the entryway. “He don’t wanna go, but I’m kickin’ him out so’s he don’t fall asleep in none of our beds. Worst blanket-hog I ever met.”

The boys all hooted and laughed. “Three cheers for Cap’n Jack!” called one of the boys, and Jack was pushed out onto the street with a chorus of “Hip, hip, hooray!” echoing in his ears.

He smiled to himself, rubbed his nose, and tried to decide where to go next. As he stood there, soaking in the familiar smells and sounds of his old neighborhood, his weariness and emotions fell on him like a ton of bricks. And suddenly, just like that, he was too tired to make any decisions—he just wanted someone to tell him where to go and what to do. He wanted someone to take care of him and hold him and tell him he’d made it. He wanted someone to smooth his hair back and tell him he was safe and promise him that he was going to be okay.

…He wanted Katherine.

 

***

 

Katherine had opted to shower last. She wanted to take her dear sweet time scrubbing every last bit of Five Points off her skin, so she’d waited to shower until Sniper, Finch, Tommy Boy, and Davey had all washed, changed, and headed off to celebrate at the lodging house. And oh, was it worth the wait. Stepping into the steamy bathroom was like stepping into a dream. She used far too much soap, practically drowned herself in shampoo, and turned the water up almost as hot as it could go. It was heaven. Singing softly to herself, she toweled off her hair, bandaged up her feet, and slipped into a soft cotton nightgown. Sure, it was only five in the afternoon, but she’d long since decided that she was spending the rest of the day indoors. By herself. In her apartment. Her _own_ apartment. The apartment that she paid for with her own money and that had more than one room and a real bed and no criminal neighbors and… She stiffened. _Was that_ — Yes. That was a knock at the door. Katherine squeezed her eyes shut in the middle of her living room and felt her heart begin to pound. _Oh no, oh no, it’s Angelo and Frank and they’re here to get me and I…_

“Ace?”

 _Oh. Jack._ The tension started to ebb from her body, although she kept her eyes closed.

“Ace, are you here?” Jack’s voice echoed down the hallway, tentative and soft.

She wasn’t capable of answering; some part of her was still caught in that grimy apartment in Five Points, her breathing shallow and her mind racing at the sound of Frank and Angelo hammering at the door.

She heard Jack slip his shoes off in the entryway, which nearly brought her to tears, and then she heard him padding towards her down the hallway. “Ace?” He whispered, his fingers curling around one of her trembling hands and his lips pressing carefully against her cheek. “Darling, it’s me.” He swept her damp hair off the side of her face and tucked it tenderly behind her ear. “Are you here, macushla?” She didn’t need to open her eyes to see that he was worried.

She nodded and reached out for him, pulling his strong body flush up against her. He nestled his head on her shoulder, breathing in the sweet undertones of honeysuckle and vanilla that marked her firmly as Katherine Pulitzer, not Lydia Murphy. “I love you,” he said, his lips tickling against her neck.

“I love you, too,” she murmured, opening her eyes and removing a hand from his back so that she could run her fingers through his hair. He shuddered at the gentle touch and clutched her even tighter. “You’re a wonder, Jack Kelly.”

His breath hitched, and he pushed her roughly backwards to put some distance between them. She froze, and his hazel eyes locked on to hers with an intensity that almost scared her. He shook his head a few times and then said, “This ain’t—isn’t how I planned to do this, love, I meant to do it properly, but I—I can’t wait any longer. I came so close to losing you yesterday, Katherine, and I… Every day we spent in Five Points I was just praying you’d be there when I got home, and then yesterday when you… I…” He trailed off and bit his lip.

She raised her eyebrows at the use of her full first name and then lowered them in confusion. “Go on,” she said, giving him a nod.

He took a deep breath and knelt down, reaching up for her hands, which she willingly let him hold. His were hot and trembling; hers were clammy but just as shaky. “Katherine, you are so much more than the ace up my sleeve. You’re the person I admire most in the world, the fearless reporter who fights for a better tomorrow, and the brilliant crusader who rescued the newsies. Twice.” He gave a soft laugh. “You’re the angel who saves me from myself time and time again. You’re my something to believe in. You’re my comfort and my strength. Katherine Ethel Plumber, you… you are my Santa Fe, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He paused and swallowed, and Katherine felt the blush that had started at the base of her neck travel all the way up to her cheeks. She smiled, gripping his hands even tighter and giving them an encouraging squeeze. “Katherine. Ace. Macushla. Will you—will you marry me?”

Katherine beamed and sank onto the floor in front of him, so full of joy that she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to stop smiling. “Yes,” she said, her voice on the edge of tears, her eyes so bright that Jack thought for a moment that they were full of stars. “Yes, Jack. You are the heart of my heart, the love of my life, the sun in my sky. You make me believe in myself and in you and in us. Together." He was looking at her so adoringly that she almost forgot how to speak. "Oh, Jack, I want to be right by your side for the rest of my days, and I…” She laughed, and a tear slipped down her cheek. Jack laughed, too, and he bent to kiss the tear away, his eyelashes brushing gently against her skin. Katherine closed her eyes, overwhelmed by happiness. “I love you, Jack. I love you so much.” 

He’d started kissing his way down her neck, humming his pleasure against her skin, and it felt good. So good. _Unbelievably_ good. She gasped. Oh, this boy, how she loved him. She never wanted him to stop; she wanted to live in this moment forever. But she had more to say, because her heart was full to bursting, and she had to tell him so. She pulled back to look him straight in the eyes. “Jack. _Jack_. I love you. I love you, do you hear me? I love you forever and always, dammit; I love you more than words can say.” He grinned, his eyes sparkling, his face clear and hopeful, her words having wiped away all of the uncertainty and fear and exhaustion that had haunted him for the last five weeks. Katherine shook her head in love and wonder and disbelief—how had she gotten so lucky?—and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “I love you, Jack Kelly, and I want nothing more than to be your wife.”

“My wife.” He grinned.

“Yes, you big idiot.” She giggled and pushed her hands against his thighs, getting him to shift his legs so that she could scoot into his lap. She cuddled up against him, laid a cool hand on his cheek, and beamed up at him, tracing one finger across the scar on his chin. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She was engaged. Engaged to Jack Kelly, her brave, beautiful boy, the most wonderful man in the world. She was engaged to him. She was going to marry him. Katherine took a deep breath. Heavens above, they were getting _married_. Had any woman ever been so lucky? “Yes, Jack, yes. I want to be your wife. I want to be yours. Now kiss me.”

He happily complied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ordinary NYC policemen’s uniforms at the time were dark navy with a single row of brass buttons down the front. Policemen wore tall rounded helmets (you know the kind I’m talking about) and carried truncheons of different lengths depending on whether it was daytime or nighttime. 
> 
> “Let’s get this show on the road” dates from about 1910. 
> 
> I was going to have Finch lose at the dunking booth _and_ the shooting games, but apparently dunking booths at the time were SUPER RACIST. Good gosh so horrifyingly racist. All of these casually awful things just fall into my lap while researching these fics, geez. So no dunking booth.
> 
> I got tired of googling about shooting galleries at carnivals before I found precise information on the origin of shooting galleries at carnivals, but I did find out that inventor and historian William F. Mangels, who was 1. Based in Coney Island, 2. Built some of Coney Island’s most famous rides, and 3. Invented the spring action mechanism that causes carousel horses to move up and down, held the most patents on targets for carnival shooting gallery games. So I’m guessing that at least one of the theme parks on Coney Island at this time (there were two: Luna Park, which opened in 1903, and Steeplechase Park, which opened in 1897) probably had a shooting gallery.
> 
> The Fort George Subway Tunnel was being dug under Washington Heights in 1903. It was the scene of a massive tunnel collapse disaster that killed ten miners in October of that year. The tunnel was finished in March 1904, and the first passenger train through the tunnel ran in 1906.
> 
>  
> 
> **~*~*~ THE END, TAH DAH! ~*~*~**
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you liked it. :3 
> 
> (Sooooo, be honest, which of you guys guessed from the start that this was the proposal fic? ;) )
> 
> In other news, I have 10 job applications due this week (HA HA _WHY_ ), so I'm out of commission for the next little bit, but all of you sweet interactive readers make this so much fun for me that I will be back with another story, for sure. As always, thank you a million times over for the reads and kudos and comments! They truly are a bright spot in a very stressful semester. I'd love to know what you thought-- drop me a line! <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Crutchie and Rosie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12503312) by [racheltheclumsy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/racheltheclumsy/pseuds/racheltheclumsy)
  * [Heart on the Trigger](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12839370) by [WritingToKeepMySanity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingToKeepMySanity/pseuds/WritingToKeepMySanity)




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